


Lord Mortis The Accident

by BlueLaceAgate



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 6th year, And Plots Don't Have To Revolve Around A Super Evil Bad Guy, Because You Can Have A Funny Story And Also Nuanced Characters, Comedy of Misunderstandings, Dark Harry, Dark Trio, Darkish Harry, Harry Tries His Best, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Minor Death Related Gore, Necromancer Harry Potter, No character bashing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2019-11-06 17:11:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17943788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueLaceAgate/pseuds/BlueLaceAgate
Summary: Harry Potter has never been good at lying under pressure, and his latest misstep lands him in deep trouble. He's now the Lord of an extremely ancient, extremely Dark, previously extinct house of Necromancers. Of course, Harry never does anything alone, and this time the Golden Trio is in for more than any of them bargained for. With new responsibilities, allies, enemies, and a rash of especially unfortunate accidental magic, they dive headfirst and without any preparation into the unbalanced and complicated reality of the magical world.





	1. Our Brave Hero Takes His First Step

**Author's Note:**

> In this chapter we see our brave protagonist royally screw himself over and set the ball rolling for a series of snowballing assumptions and incidents.

Harry let out a less than quiet breath as the phone booth door clicked shut. He didn’t really think anyone was going to stop him, not yet at least. He was just walking down the street after all, and he doubted a stranger would recognize him. Honestly, he wasn’t entirely convinced someone who knew him well would recognize him right now. Not wearing his aunt’s broad rimmed black sunhat (he’d taken off the flower, but that didn’t really make it look that much better really), or with a very thick robe stuffed mostly into his jumper, though it kept falling out so the whole thing had to stuffed into his trousers a little. It felt weird just walking onto the bus in his robes. He probably would have done it anyway, but sneaking out of the Dursleys' in a bottle green set of dress robes wasn’t something he was really up for trying that morning. 

What was the code for ministry entry again? Oh, yeah. It spelled magic. How absolutely original. 62442 and he was in. The air shimmered as the box he was standing in began to expand and decend. Harry hastily shed his jumper, nearly toppling himself and accidentally removing the robe as well. He scrambled to everything back on and had his jumper thoroughly caught around his face when a pleasant female voice echoed lightly around the now brass and wood elevator.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and the purpose of your visit.”

Harry bit his lip and pulled the jumper down. He couldn’t very well say that he, the great and mighty Boy Who Lived, had come to see about the will of a man who most people didn’t even know was dead and possibly more importantly he was supposed to hate. Actually, it was really not an option to say he was Harry Bloody Potter at all. He didn’t have to be Hermione to puzzle that out. Might actually be a death sentence for him at this point, given his experiences with the ministry. Harry blinked, then snickered softly.

“Rigor Mortis, here to, uh,” Harry stumbled for a moment, “look at some things.” Hopefully that would be enough.

It was. A shiny badge shot of a small slot on the wall and presented itself, floating in front of him. Harry plucked it from the air and squinted. It read:

LORD RIGOURE MORTIS  
LOOK AT SOME THINGS

“Have a wonderful day!” The voice chimed.

Harry blinked. Lord? He hadn’t said that. The spelling was odd too. The teenager shrugged, and pinned the little piece of brass to his robes. The elevator seemed to be going slower than he remembered, but that was okay. Harry rocked back and forth on his heels as he waited the last few moments for the brass box to reach its destination. His feet squished coldly in his soaked trainers, and Harry wondered idly if he should look into buying a new pair while he was in the city. He didn’t have much muggle money on him, but he might have enough to get a pair.

So lost in thought, he almost missed the little chime as the elevator door opened. 

Harry blinked. He had to stop himself from doing something very stupid, like screaming in a public place or trying to run and plowing into a wall.

Waiting a small distance from the exit to the elevator were the absolute last people he’d wanted to see. There stood Lucius Malfoy, looking about as composed as ever, though the sheen of sweat on the edges of his brow and the way his faint smile looked like it could shatter at any moment somewhat soured the image of perfect pureblood Lord. Next to him Fudge, whose trembling hands squeezed each other white. There was a woman too, he didn’t know her but her stern and monocled form reminded him of a particularly cross McGonagall.

Fudge, the useless slimeball, stepped forward a single pace and bowed. At him. To him. Oh no. Maybe there was someone else next to him? Harry’s eyes swept all around. There was no one. The impressive entrance hall was impressively empty, unlike the last time when he had visited, when it was impressively loud and full and colorful. Oh no. 

“Lord Mortis?” The Minister inquired, voice carefully steady and tone deliberately . . . Something Harry couldn’t exactly pinpoint. Something important. On either side of him the other two tensed, shoulders becoming impossibly straight.

Oh shite.

\----------

A long squawking noise startled the minister from his mid afternoon grooming. Fudge sighed, set down his small tortoise shell pot of hair potion on his desk in between neat piles of parchment, and stood. He walked over to the tall, gilded grandfather clock set against the wall not five feet to the left of his desk. For all that the noise was truly obnoxious, the device itself was very helpful. After all, any competent minister should know when important people enter the building. Or at least when the name tag is made. It gave him a chance to meet and greet anyone worth knowing in person. Made a very good impression when the minister personally saw to the needs of whoever it was that day from the very start, no dillying or dallying.

The man wondered who it was this time. Maybe a diplomat of some sort he’d forgotten was coming? Perhaps some scholarly type he had never heard of before, here to unleash their newest discovery? He looked at the name written in the blank circle that replaced the clock face. He froze. Blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Looked again, eyes tracing the bold lettering, as if the ink might rearrange itself any moment now. It didn’t, the name printed above ominously still. 

LORD RIGOURE MORTIS, it proclaimed.

Fudge felt his blood freeze, starting with his fingertips and spreading in a way that felt unbearably slow but could not have taken more than a second.

“Marissa!” He called, his voice a loud croak.

“Yes sir?” His secretary peeked her head through the door.

“Get me Lucius and Bones. Now.” He was still frozen, staring. “And clear the atrium.”

She blinked twice, opened her mouth once, closed it, and replied. “Of course sir.”

She closed the door.

Mortis. The name echoed in his head. There hadn’t been a single sighting of the family for over two centuries. And now one had walked into his ministry. His ministry. Heart beating in overtime, as if to make up for the ice still flooding his veins and pounding in his ears, Fudge stumbled back to his seat and collapsed into it. The large leather chair usually felt like a throne, but now it felt rather fittingly like a coffin. Mortis. The family was named so aptly. Necromancy was a whim to them. Death followed the Mortis name in what little of the family history was even known. 

At least they were a secluded, paranoid bunch. Or so he had thought. If he was being entirely honest, it was the well held belief that the Mortises had died out. Perhaps it was more of a hope. Not that anyone dared breathe such a thing out loud. Now one had waltzed right through his front door. And he was not lucky enough to have it be a lesser family member, he had to contend with the Lord of them all.

For a brief moment it crossed his mind that maybe this was an impersonation. Perhaps a pretender or some joke? But no. That was impossible. No one would dare. The last impersonator had ended up splattered against a Diagon storefront two decades and some change ago. That hope was dashed.

He had no idea what to do.

He was very suddenly glad the charms controlling the speed the lift made the descent much slower for anyone of importance, so he could have some time to gather himself and get down to greet them. He had a little time, maybe a few minutes. It was something at least.

Amelia Bones marched into the office without so much as a knock. While she was a very important person in pureblood circles in her own right and the Department Head of the DMLE, that was not why he had asked for her presence here today. It was a little known fact nowadays that the Bones were a vassal family for the Mortises. It was barely a footnote to those who did know, at least on days not today, seeing as the family had been so quiet for so long.

Fudge lifted his head, hand pulling up with it to gesture weakly to the clock like an inelegant marionette. Bones looked annoyed, but didn’t comment and turned to the intricate golden pillar. She paled, a heavy breath pushing out of her. She turned wide eyes to the minister. Not a wise thing to do, he probably had less idea about what should be done than her.

Lucius took that moment to knock politely at the door, entering a half second later without waiting to be invited. The Lord took a moment to assess the situation, scanning the room for anything that could have frozen its occupants so effectively. It was obvious when his eyes caught the source. He choked on his own breath descending into a small coughing fit.

Fudge, sweaty and weak kneed, gestured for them to follow him and headed out the doors to the atrium. Three pairs of shoes clicked softly on the stone of the hall floors. 

It was Bones who spoke first. “What . . . What are we going to do?”

An uneasy silence curled around the party. They reached a turn, only two more to the atrium.

“Maybe we should see why the Lord is here first?” Lucius suggested, having successfully wrangled most of his usual composure into place. Thee other two nodded to themselves, not having any better ideas. It would have to do.

The silence of the walk to the lift doors was tense. The silence waiting for it to open was bloody.

The gleaming doors parted with a pleasant “ting”. Fudge swore his heart nearly burst.

Standing there, eyes hidden in the shadow of a large cloth hat, was Lord Mortis. He seemed to loom over them all, back straight and shoulders hunched forwards just slightly. The Lord was shorter than he imagined, with dark hair wafting out from under the hat, brushing like feathers against unhealthy paled skin. Draped over the Lord’s frame were robes of obvious quality. Robes the poisonous green of the killing curse. Fudge held in a shiver and resisted the urge to dab at his brow with the kerchief in his pocket. The Lord stood deadly still, obviously waiting for them to make the first move.

Fudge strode forwards as confidently as his trembling legs were capable of. “Lord Mortis?” He enquired as politely as he could. Even though he could not read the brass nameplate the figure had pinned on, he was certain he was not mistaken as to the Lord’s identity. It was still polite to ask.

The figure twitched, but what they could see of Lord Mortis’ expression did not. Had he done something wrong? He had done something wrong.

Oh shite.

\----------

Harry just knew he was in a deep, deep pile of dragon shit now. One that reached miles above his head. At least they didn’t know who he was? He was so dead.

Oh. They expected him to answer. If Lucius heard his voice he was screwed though. It would all be over. He tried to deepen his voice.

“I am.” Oh Merlin, did he sound lame. He had no idea what he was supposed to say. And he was sure he sounded like one of those seven year olds trying to imitate deep adult voices. He just knew it. Was he supposed to say something more proper? He already sounded like a massive, Malfoy’s Dad level git.

A wave of something . . . magical surged inside him, spilling out into the room with an almost physical force. It almost felt as it it was spilling into him and through him, something almost foreign but unmistakably his own. What the bloody hell was that? Great, just great. Absolutely fan frigging tastic. Just his luck he was some sort of magic fog machine and only now discovering it. He had the worst timing.

“Is there something we might assist you with, Lord Mortis?” Fudge looked like he was about to piss himself. Harry had to bite back a laugh. He might be completely, utterly in over his head and all of two seconds away from being discovered, but that was funny. He officially had another solid Patronus memory.

“I need to look at the will of Sirius Black.” There wasn’t really a way to just slip in and out quietly now, but he didn’t really know where to look in the first place so maybe this would speed things along. They could point him in the right direction and everyone could forget this ever happened. Yeah. Like that would happen.

The woman sucked in a soft breath. Fudge squeaked. Actually squeaked.

Harry crossed his fingers covertly behind his back and really, really hoped he wouldn’t be found out. Not after all this. Whatever this was.

\----------

“I am.” Mortis spoke, voice deep and menacing, seeming to boom out across the room despite the low volume of the words themselves.

Lucius pointedly did not twitch as powerful Death Magic oozed and curled out of the robed figure, sweeping through the room like floodwater. It would be impolite to react. Possibly. He was entirely unsure as to what the etiquette in this situation actually was. He just hoped he did not offend the obviously powerful Lord. This was really not his day.

Fudge wobbled forward, sweaty hands folded together tightly. Lucius prayed he didn’t say anything that would doom them all.

“Is there something we might assist you with, Lord Mortis?” Honestly, the man looked like he was about to soil himself.

At least it was a useful question. The Death Eater held his breath, hoping Lord Mortis might reveal some hint as to the purpose of his visit. Anything at all. Maybe they could get the immensely, impressively powerful Lord out of here without too much trouble.

“I need to look at the will of Sirius Black.”

Lucius did not outwardly react Merlin damn it al. He was supposed to have Draco quietly claim the Black inheritance without anyone the wiser. Next to no one knew the man was even dead. It was supposed to be a win for his family. Not that he was going to bring that up. He might work under a Dark Lord of questionable sanity and a penchant fot random violence, but he wasn't suicidal.

Bones sucked in a breath.

Damn it all to burning times and back again. Wills weren’t even dealt with or stored here. They would be with a close family member or the goblins. In this case he bet on the latter. It has to be some sort of test. Lord Mortis was testing them.

Lucius stepped forward before either of his companions could sentence them all to an early grave. “Right away Lord Mortis. If you would do me the honor of following me to a more comfortable waiting room, sir.”

Lord Mortis nodded slowly, the faintest waves of malice wafting off him like a perfume. Lucius started to sweat. Had he offended Lord Mortis? How had he offended Lord Mortis? Was there any way to rectify this before he and the rest of his living (and possibly dead) kin were turned to puppets to satisfy the Lord’s temper?

“Just this way, Lord Mortis.” Lucius knew he was visibly sweating now. He took a step back and half turned on his heel so he was more or less facing with his back to the lift, but with enough turn left that a he wouldn’t have to swing his head dramatically to catch sight of the Lord.

The soul wrenchingly terrifying waves of malice didn’t abate, but the did not increase either. Lucius almost sighed in relief, but that would have been uncouth. Impolite. Potentially fatal.

He started walking, carefully not too fast or too slow, in the direction of one of the ministry’s nicest and most comfortable sitting rooms. It was a very important place, where very important people discussed very important things. It was also likely a deciding factor in how dead he would be when this was all over. Lucius hoped it was good enough.

Lord Mortis’ footfalls were light, practically silent even in the empty atrium. The sound itself was a wet thing, one that made Lucius restrain a shudder.

An eternity later Lucius stepped up to the thick wood door and opened it with a slow grace, bowing deeply at the waist. He swung one arm across his body to present the open entrance to the Lord.

A snap of deepening anger cracked out from dangerous Lord and struck the bowing pureblood like a knife. Breath caught like a bludger in his throat. Lord Mortis stepped forwards. The Death Eater prayed it would be quick, but held little hope.

Lord Mortis stepped past him into the room.

Lucius’ tense muscles trembled in relief and he barely caught a whimper before it exited his throat.

Lucius straightened, pulling the last of his composure tightly around him. “Is the room to your taste?”He addressed the green robed figure.

“. . . Yes.” Lord Mortis spoke slowly.

“If you would excuse me, I will bring the will before you shortly.” The pale man swallowed around a sandpaper tongue as subtly as he could.

The seconds stretched by, then Lord Mortis gave him a single sharp nod.

Lucius bowed again and closed the door as quietly as he could, then slumped against it, knees all but giving out entirely. He let out a shaky breath.

“Is . . . ” Fudge trailed off, staring at his closest advisor with wide eyes, wringing his hands.

Lucius catapulted himself into a straight backed standing position, imaginary wrinkles from his robes with shaking hands. “I will be back with Black’s will as soon as I am able.” He strode forward and was in the lift before either of the other people in the room thought to open their mouths.

\----------

Harry had been waiting in that room for a long time, and as comfortable as the couch was it was very bare and he was left alone with his thoughts. Which lead to his current issue: Harry was confused. Very, very confused. Malfoy’s dad had bowed to him. At least, he was pretty sure that had happened. They couldn’t have known he has himself, could they? No. No, they thought he was someone important. Someone important enough that Lucius Malfoy had bowed to him. Well, shite.

He sighed heavily. At least he was getting Sirius’ will. After he had died, and damn did that still hurt to think about, Hermione had grilled Ron about how wills in the wizarding world worked. Ron hadn’t known a whole lot, and Harry hadn’t been paying attention as well as he probably should have been. He hadn’t really been in the mood to talk much, or do anything much really, but his friends did their best to make sure he could get anything Sirius had wanted him to have. He was glad they had gotten it right about where the wills were held. Neither Ron nor Hermione had been exactly sure where will were kept, but they decided it made sense that they were held in the main government building. All he had to do was touch the will and, well, he didn’t know what would happen exactly, but Sirius had to have left him something. He hoped.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, eyes tearing up and the back of throat burned. Sirius wouldn’t . . . he wouldn’t want him to cry anymore. He’d cried so much, if he owed his godfather anything he owed it to him to stop that and try to be happy. One deep breath and Harry shook his head once harshly, as if he could physically dislodge the reaction. He just wanted to stop feeling so helpless, wanted to break something. Badly. So badly it snapped inside him like firecrackers. He grit his teeth against tears and anger.

“Squeak!”

Harry opened his eyes, blinking away the spots that came from screwing them closed like he had. What? He looked around, brow furrowed and lips drawn in confusion. He glanced down at his lap once he’d swept the room to stare at the hands resting on his knees.

There was a . . . Was that a dead mouse? On his lap, a mostly complete skeleton of a small mouse sat perched on its hindquarters. It’s little face snuffled up at him. It was moving, and he was fairly sure that wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. Any trail of thought he’d had before crashed violently to a halt, leaving confused static in it’s wake. The little jaw opened a crack.

“Squeak.” More subdued this time, but he’d definitely heard it.

Harry pulled his brows down and together and tugged at his lip with gentile teeth, head spinning dizzyingly. He took a shuddering breath in and closed his eyes against the sensation. His magic was swirling around him chaotically, as it had been doing every time he got particularly emotional since fourth year. It surged beneath his skin, itching the inside and outside of his skin simultaneously. Which had been incredibly unpleasant at first but he had gotten used to, a bit, over time. It was particularly bad today though, and he cringed from it. It seemed . . . More today as well. He couldn’t explain why or how it felt like that, but it did he was sure of it.

The mouse squeaked again and even with his eyes closed his attention was pulled towards it. His magic caressed it gently, he could feel it like his hands petting soft fur. That was new, and his eyes snapped open just as his magic surged past the fir to connect to the heart of the little creature. What was that?

It didn’t look any different, all bony and dusty, though it looked to him more alive. Another differentiation he couldn’t explain. Or even define properly. He could still feel his magic twining though the little thing, still feel phantom fur over hands that were nowhere near the skeleton. He wanted to know more, see more, as much as dread filled him at the sight in front of him . . . He was curious. His magic surged in response, curling and twisting and with it flesh began crawling up the little spine slowly, from the heart outwards. It was disturbing to watch, and after a second he blinked away the sight.

He groaned, perhaps a little loud but Harry thought it was impressive he hadn’t screamed, and dropped his head in his hands. He could no longer feel ghost fur on them, which was a plus at least, he thought. Why did it always, always have to be him? Where had this even come from? Had Malfoy’s dad done something to him? He dismissed that. Probably not, since even if the man was a grade a creep he wouldn’t give Harry a new ability, or whatever this was.

When he peeked between his fingers at the little thing, it looked almost like a living mouse, having finished growing all of it’s fur and flesh back. It looked just like any other little grey mouse, except for one thing. Failty glowing killing curse green eyes stared back at his own.

Harry squeezed a strangled noise from the back of his throat. Why him, he repeated desolately, why him. He could have been normal. He would have been happy being normal. But no, of course not, he had to be The-Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived and all this other nonsense on top of it. Or perhaps because of it. Damn it all.

The mouse squeaked again, twice in quick succession as if telling him something, high pitched and urgent.

He really wanted to break something now.

The door swung opened with the faint creak of hinges and a small burst of cold air. Harry snapped his head up to glare at whoever had startled him out of his . . . not . . . brooding. Lucius Malfoy flinched back violently. Harry immediately felt a little better, and then a bit bad, and then just generally a little cross after that faded a split second later. He stopped glaring though, and felt his magic settle under his skin almost reluctantly. What was going on with that.

Malfoy’s dad took one step forwards, then another after a small pause, then another with almost careful confidence until he was standing just a few feet away. What did he think Harry was going to do, kill him? He almost laughed thinking about it. As if he even could.

“Lord Mortis, the will you requested.” Malfoy’s dad bowed low and held the small stack of parchment out in front of him.

Harry took the papers awkwardly. He didn’t really want to thank Malfoy’s dad, you know with the whole Death Eater thing and the whole he didn’t like him thing, but . . .

“Thank you,” he said slowly, trying not to sound rude. It’s not like the man knew who we was, and he didn’t want to give whatever important person he was definitely impersonating a bad name.

The man righted himself carefully. “Thank you, Lord Mortis. Is there anything else you require?”

Harry paused. Something else? He didn’t really think so. “No.”

Malfoy’s dad bowed again and backed out of the room quickly. Almost desperately, he’d say.

A moment after the door was shut, the mouse thing on his lap squeaked again. Huh. He had actually forgotten about that. One sly glance down confirmed that, yep, it was still creepy as ever. He sighed through his nose.

The papers were the important thing though, and despite being a little scared to see what was on them, Harry started to read. His eyes scanned the pages, having to skip back to read a couple things more than once, just to be sure they were real. Sirius had left him everything. Literally everything. The Black Vaults, the Lordship, the Wizen-whatever seats, even Grimmuald place. He smiled a little even as he choked back tears. Maybe it was irresponsible of the man to leave a teenager in charge of all this, but he wasn’t sure Sirius had ever been called responsible in his life, and it felt good to know how much the man had cared about him.

He cleared his throat and tried to enunciate at best he could. “I accept.” His voice was still a little croaky, but it had been enough. The papers flashed, and a cover page slipped in in front of the rest. It was some sort of summary, but it was the very top line that drew his attention.

The complete possessions, lands, and titles of Heir Sirius Black are now passed to Lord Rigoure Mortis (Previously Harry James Potter).

Previously? Was he not himself anymore? What had happened? Did it have something to do with that stupid fake name tag? He took it off and squinted at the letters. Was that what this was all about? He hoped not. Hermione would just about hide him if a fake name tag had changed his name and caused whatever all this was.

Of course, he had to live to see her first, which meant now was the time to beat a hasty escape.


	2. Our Brave Hero Fumbles Socially

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our brave hero reaches Grimmuald place, after a few in between steps, and meets a newly engaged couple.

It had been two days since his trip to the Ministry and Harry was still confused. It would be almost a month until the Order came to get him and took him to Grimmuald, assuming they were still there. Since Sirius didn’t own the place to loan out anymore they might not be, since it was, bafflingly enough, his now. Or maybe they thought he had willed it to the Order or something and were still there? He didn’t know.

He had thought of sending something back asking Hermione for help with whatever had happened, but he figured he wouldn’t get a real answer back, just something vague, and had resigned to waiting however long it would be until he saw her next. He hoped she could figure out what was going on. That they all could, really. If the two smartest people he knew couldn’t figure it out then who could?

Harry wondered absently if he should go downstairs and get himself something to eat. The Dursleys were out tonight, some sort of family dinner he wasn’t invited to. He could leave his room without being bothered. Though, he could do that when the Dursleys were still here too, considering they had mostly ignored him this summer. But, well, things had been weird ever since he had strode back into the house tiredly with a glowy eyed little mouse on the brim of his aunt’s hat and a set of green robes stuffed badly into his jumper. None of them had looked him in the eye since, and Aunt Petunia wouldn’t even take her hat back. It was new, and from what he’d overhead very expensive, and that anything could override his Aunt’s vanity like that was unsettling.

Speaking of unsettling . . . His new companion was definitely that. The mouse thing hadn’t shown any signs or leaving or going back to being dead any time soon, so last night he’d pulled out his history textbook and gone looking for names. He’d settled solidly on Uric, after Uric the Oddball. It seemed fitting.

A light scuttling drew his attention to the little menace, who was climbing up his blanket from where it hung off his bed and up towards his pillow. It sat there still as the dead, eyes glowing like some deeply disturbing voodoo beast from one of Dudley’s scary movies, right next to his face, raised it’s little nose to the ceiling, and squeaked. Harry burried his head in his pillow and groaned loudly. 

At the very, very least nothing else had come back to life. No undead house cats, no rabbit Dudley had buried in the backyard six months after he’d gotten it for his birthday when he’d forgotten to feed it, no ghostly goldfish suddenly stalking him. Merlin he hoped he hadn’t just jinxed it. His magic stirred uncomfortably under his skin in response. Ever since the Ministry it hadn’t been able to sit still, alternating between moving very noticeably throughout his body or leaking out of it. He felt like a damned fog machine. As if in response, it started to spill ever s slightly from his fingertips. Harry groaned again. Why him? Why did it always have to be him?

Uric squeaked again.

Harry turned to stare at it. He wondered for a moment about the . . . You know, he wasn’t really sure what to call it. It wasn’t really a zombie or anything, and it’s mouse hood was dubious at best. The only thing he was sure it was 100% of the time was a headache.

He sighed and pressed the back of his head into the pillow.

There was a banging noise downstairs, a loud one. Sounded like a door being throw open, not apparation, but Harry was still on his feet in a spit second, blanket falling clumsily to the floor, groping for the light switch and casting the room into shadow. His magic was coiled tightly beneath his skin, heart pounding in his chest and his ears. Thank Merlin he had been out in the park earlier and hadn’t bothered untying his shoes. Panicked eyes swept the room, past Hedwig’s empty cage and his never unpacked chest in search of his wand.

It sat innocently on his desk, and a second later he had it in hand and slowly backed into the darkest corner of the room.

Uric did not squeak. Harry counted himself lucky on that one, though less lucky when it scurried over to rest beside his feet. He spared a glance to see if Uric's eyes glowed too obviously. Through some odd twist of fate there wasn’t even a hint of light. 

But he didn’t have time to think of that, not when he heard footfalls on the stairs. There was more than one of them, he could tell that with certainty, but how many he couldn’t be sure. They were coming closer. Closer. He winced at a quiet creak. Third stair from the top, left side. It sounded like a gunshot with only his heartbeat as competition to take up the silence. He drew a breath in and held it. A steady hand held his wand trained on the closed door.

He felt Uric’s fur brushing against the top of his ankle, which zipped in the back of his mind, beyond the adrenaline, as incredibly odd.

The door swung open, nearly silent, casting faint light into the room. 

Harry braced himself for spell fire. 

The lights flicked on.

“. . . Tonks?” Harry asked, incredulous, the word practically forcing itself out of his mouth.

“Wotcher, Harry.” She responded, looking absolutely exhausted. Her eyes were a dull grass green which did nothing to make her slightly frizzy mousey brown hair looks any better.

Harry frowned. They weren’t supposed to be here, not yet. “Prove it.”

“Good lad.” Moody shouldered his way into the room, shooing Tonks further in.

Harry blinked once in surprise and the locked eyes with him. “So, prove it.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?” Moody snarked back at him.

“I don’t know.” Harry furrowed his brow. How was he supposed figure out if they were themselves.

Moody sighed sharply. “Ask me a question, something only I’d know the answer to.”

Harry frowned. “What do you complain about all the time? Uh, about my wand?”

“That you keep it where you can lose an arse cheek.” He huffed. “That wasn’t a bad one lad, now grab your things, we’re leaving.”

Harry slumped a little in relief, partially from that and partially because Tonks had added bright blue to her hair. He started slightly as Uric’s little claws latched onto his pants leg, climbing up it with speed. Moody’s swirling eye locked onto the little abomination and the man tensed.

“What,” he growled, “is that?”

Harry shrugged and responded with “Uric.” He knew it was’t a real answer, but he didn’t actually have one of those himself.

Moody’s craggy face contorted in displeasure, eye still locked on as it made it’s home in his front left pocket. He looked like he wanted to say more, but he was interrupted by the third member of their party.

Arthur Weasley stepped through the doorway with a bright smile. “All packed up Harry?”

“Yes Mr. Weasley.” Harry wasn’t sure if he was oblivious to the tension or just choosing to ignore it but he was thankful either way. He smiled at his best friend’s father and turned to the side of his desk, pulling his trunk over to the rest of the group and scanning the room to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. There was just some old parchment and a broken quill on the desk, a scattered pile of newspapers, and his Aunt’s sunhat lying at the end of his bed. Nothing he wanted to take. Hedwig’s cage sat in the corner, but he could just send her ahead the day of so he didn’t really need that either. Good to go then. He turned to look at the group expectantly.

Moody grunted and fished around in his coat pocket for a moment before pulling out a cracked frisbee. Harry grimaced. Great, another portkey. Still, It’s not like they could fly to Grimmuald or anything, with all the Muggles in London. If they were going there, which was still sort of up in the air. Harry reached out and grabbed the edge of the disk firmly. Once Arthur and Tonks had joined them, Moody muttered something unintelligible.

Harry groaned loudly as the effect of the portkey ended. He’d landed and immediately collapsed face first on the floor in a heap, he really wished he could be surprised about that. The floor was cool though, and it gave him a moment to compose himself. It took almost a minute for the world to stop spinning. Something squirmed in his pocket. Now that he was paying attention to it, he could feel the little body reforming in his pocket. It had probably been crushed when he’d fallen, and if he wasn’t so grossed out he might feel bad about that.

His mind turned without his permission to the time he’d accidentally stepped on the little beast. How he’d been unable to look away as the little body had knit itself back together. It was an experience he’d hoped never to have again. 

Seconds Later he heard a muffled squeak. Harry choked on a laugh, which made a deeply embarrassing noise.

He pushed himself up off the sweet, steady floor with a low groan, head still swimming a little from his trip, and turned up to see Hermione watching him in quiet amusement and Ron behind her muffling a snicker behind his hand. They were in a rather bare looking bedroom with two beds, well worn wood floors, and boxes piled up on one bed and lining most of the walls. It all smelled faintly of syrup and gunpowder, which Harry thought was a very odd combination. The window outside, which sat just to the left of the pair, even in the dark and just lit by light coming off the house, showed a fairly clear view of the Burrow’s back garden.

“Nice to see you too.” He grumbled, pushing himself up to standing and choking down the bile that rose with it. He steadied himself and gave them both a slightly creaky smile.

Hermione crushed him in a hug, face thoroughly buried in his shoulder, and mumbled something that sounded heartfelt.

Harry laughed. “Hermione I cant hear you all the way in there.”

She mumbled something again, arms tightening, and Harry shared an exasperated glance with Ron. Harry hadn’t thought Ron could get any taller, but there he was having shot up over the summer, and was at least a head taller than Harry. He would even bet his friend was taller than Snape now, which made him feel a little smug.

Hermione stepped back and gave him an embarrassed smile. “It’s good to see you Harry.”

“You too.” He grinned back at her. “Erm, is there a meeting going on?” He’d expected a bit of a rush, or at least Mrs Weasley to be there waiting as well, but it seemed to be just the six of them in the room.

“As a matter of fact there is.” Arthur Weasley responded, voice bright and cheerful, setting his hand of Harry shoulder and throwing all three of them a somewhat soft look. “One we have to be getting to as a matter of fact.”

“Let’s go then.” Harry nodded. Good, they were finally going to let him in on some of this at least.

“Ah -” Arthur looked a little thrown. “Not you Harry, but Tonks, Alastor, and I.” He threw a slightly desperate look to the other two, looking like he very much did not want to be the bearer of this bad news. “Why don’t you three show Harry where he’ll be staying?”

“It’s the same as last time.” Ron tossed out, casual tone souring slightly.

“Ah, yes, well, perhaps some time to catch up then?” He gave them another, slightly thinner looking smile as he raised his wand and apparated out with a crack. Moody and Tonks were just a second after he was, Moody’s eye still locked onto him.

“We’re getting anti apparation wards when Bill comes in about a week . . .” Ron bit out, a bit weakly, rubbing his arm in an absent minded circular motion. “They’re still not telling us anything.”

Harry glanced down at where his hand was moving, breath catching in the back of his throat. The brains. The damage they did. “How . . . ” He couldn't force the other words out.

Ron shrugged smiled wanly. “They’ve healed up alright, just scars now. Don’t hurt or anything.” He wrinkled his nose. “Itchy though.”

Harry nodded, relieved. He knew what Ron meant, the scar on his upper arm giving a sympathetic twinge. Then his brain caught up to what Ron had said. “Nothing at all?”

Ron shook his head. “We’ve been trying but . . .”

“They still think we’re too young.” Hermione finished, face twisted like the words tasted as bad as they sounded. “And the meetings are always out of the house, at least after they caught us the first time we tried to snoop, so it’s impossible to even try to listen in.”

Harry frowned deeply, anger stirring inside him. Had they learned anything from the past year about the dangers of keeping him in the dark? Had Sirius’ death taught them nothing? Didn’t that mean something to them? What about their own children's injuries? 

His magic whipped inside him, the boiling sensation of it drawing him out of his rage as it started to snap past his skin. He couldn’t let anyone get hurt by his emotions ever again, and he didn’t know if his magic, the way it was now, would hurt Ron or Hermione. He clenched his teeth and pushed a long breath out his nose. He’d get mad when he could yell at them to their faces.

“Harry?” Hermione asked tentatively.

“Yeah?” His voice was as forced a calm as he felt.

She cleared her throat. “How, uh, how many OWLs do you think you got?”

Harry laughed, of course she’d ask him about that. “I don’t know Hermione, but I do have something I need to talk to you about.” His voice dipped at the end, fading into nerves and a darker tone.

“Well, out with it then.” Ron sitting on one of the lowers stacks boxes with a grin.

Harry settled on the bed a second later, and Hermione found pulled out the chair from an empty desk. Even after he’d run over how to tell them in his mind a hundred times, Harry still wasn’t exactly sure what to say. Well, it was probably best to start at the beginning.

He took a deep breath, and began. “Well, see, you know how we talked about me going and getting Sirius’ will, and how it was probably at the Ministry and all . . .”

\-----

Lucius Malfoy was in Turmoil. His hair, usually tied back and well groomed, hung over his shoulders unevenly. His office, in which he was wearing a hole in a rug that had lived there along before he was born, was not as tidy as it usually was. The parchment littering his desk was scattered and not stacked neatly. The chairs not perfectly aligned. A soft velvet blanket was thrown haphazardly over the lounge. Little things, but to a man like Lucius they were everything.

Lord Mortis’ one visit to the Ministry three days ago had thrown everything into chaos. He had yet to reappear since, and many were hoping it stayed that way. Lucius could not force himself to be that optimistic.

Fudge had Ministry workers combing records for anything relating to the Mortis line. Lucius prayed he found something. His Master wanted the Lord to join their cause. And while Lucius wished him luck with that, he hoped desperately that he wasn’t ordered to involve himself in those negotiations. Mortis’ were notoriously, often violently, neutral. He’d have more luck convincing the entire Weasley brood to switch sides in all likelihood.

Lucius had plans of his own though. He needed more information before he could truly act on any of them. He needed to know more about the Lord Mortis. Before that malice he felt at the Ministry came back to haunt him. He needed to ingratiate himself, or at least his family, to the necromancer. At least enough to buy their lives and hopefully their freedom. He had narrowly won back his Master’s favor by delivering the news of Lord Mortis’ return to their world, and while keeping that was vital to his family’s continued survival and status once the war was won, it would mean nothing if they were all dead first.

The problem was, he had nowhere to start. The Mortis family had been ghosts in the wizarding world for over a century, with not even a whisper as to what they had gotten up to in that time. No one had any idea at all. Except, of course, for Black. Sirius Black, who had been close enough to the Lord Mortis to leave him everything instead of his godson. It was a puzzle. How and when had Black of all people gotten that close to Lord Mortis.

Lucius ran a manicured hand through his hair, tousling it in thought and pausing in his pacing to stare at the crackling fireplace.

There was a knock at the door.

Lucius stepped over to the tall green velvet chair that sat behind his desk and lowered himself into it. “Come in.” His voice was raised just enough so that it would carry through the thick wooden doors.

His son peeked his head through, then slipped in casually. “Father?”

“Yes, Draco?” He leaned back in his chair and began sorting the papers on his desk absentmindedly.

“What’s been going on these past few days?” The younger Malfoy just about threw himself onto one of the highbacked leather chairs facing his desk.

Ah. Well, his little dragon had always been perceptive, even if he had inherited the Black penchant for dramatics.

“There has been a rather unusual appearance.” Lucius started, tasting the words on his tongue as he gathered his thoughts.

He got a raised eyebrow in response, and Lucius would be hard pressed to decide if the expression more mimicked Severus or his wife.

“Three days ago, Lord Mortis entered the Ministry to claim the will of Sirius Black.” Lucius bit back a sigh. He was still no closer to the why of that, either.

Draco sucked in a sharp breath, posture righting from it’s previous slump.

The elder hummed in agreement, pushing a lock of hair away from stormy blue eyes. “Beyond that . . .” He took a deep breath. “It seems I may have made some mistake, upset him in some way. Though the how and the why, those still evade me.”

He saw his son flinch backwards and the blood drain from his face. Lucius swallowed around the ashes in his mouth. He felt much the same way.

“What . . . What are we going to do?” The young Slytherin’s voice trembled, but it was better than many would have done in his position, and of that Lucius was proud.

He let out a quiet snort at that. It was a serious situation, but the ridiculousness of his next words still left him reeling a bit. “Somehow the late Sirius Black had gotten close enough to Lord Mortis to will him everything instead of his godson. What I need to figure out is how. From there, you and Narcissa would do well to prove your usefulness, even if my chance to do so has passed.” Let it never be said that Lucius Malfoy did not put his family first in all things.

“Maybe . . .” Draco started, worrying his lip gently between perfect teeth, “maybe Potter has some clue?”

That opened up other, more worrying possibilities. Like Lord Mortis knowing Potter. Like Lord Mortis caring for Potter. Like Lord Mortis opposing his Master. A shudder wracked Lucius frame.

“You are no longer to antagonize Potter. Try to make peace, if you can.” He knew his voice was croakier than he’d have liked, but the though of his son in the hands of a displeased Lord Mortis was not something he ever wanted to even think of.

“The Mudblood and Weasel too?” Draco frowned, lip curling faintly in disgust.

Obviously his son did not understand. Which meant it was his job to explain, in perfect and excruciating detail, exactly what the situation they found themselves in was. By the end his son was pale and shaking faintly, and while seeing the boy that way gave him no pleasure, Lucius hoped it would prevent any foolish action on his part.

Lucius wanted to break something. But he couldn’t, of course. He had so much work to do. A Dark Lord to please, bribes to place, the life of Sirius Black to trace back to infancy, and memories to study for the tenth time in hopes of perhaps finding what had gone wrong at the Ministry.

But perhaps he could use a break before he did something rash himself. A ride with his son in the back gardens to clear his head, perhaps.

\-----

Morning came early. Not in the way where Harry was tired, and it was some odd in the afternoon but it felt early or all that. No, morning started at 4am when an awful shrieking awoke him. The ghoul in the attack at it again.

Breakfast was about an hour later, given the shrieking had awoken everyone but Ron, who had been pulled out of bed by the scent of bacon. The day was easy, slow. Harry hesitated to call it lazy, because there was a tension underneath it all. Even in these simple moments the war hung over their heads.

They flew around the backyard, not so much pickup Quidditch as just tossing a quaffle around. Dinner was cheerful and bright, and Harry treasured the warmth that filled the bones of the Burrow.

The next day followed suit, with some added degnoming of the garden.

Though Hermione and Ron had both promised to help him get to the bottom of what was going on with him, they didn’t have much time alone or many materials to study. So, even though uneasiness itched inside him, Harry made himself content with some happy summer days. He knew a little more now than before, at least. That had come from Ron, not Hermione. Apparently the Mortis family was some painfully old, incredibly powerful, widely feared family of necromancers that hadn’t been heard of in a very long time. Practically the wizarding equivalent of boogeymen. It wasn’t something harry had been exactly thrilled to learn. Hermione had been fascinated, and a bit cross that she was just as clueless as Harry was. But that just made them all more determined to solve the mystery. 

On his third morning at the Burrow, Harry stumbled blearily down the stairs to find Dumbledore waiting for him in the kitchen. Molly, who had woken him up and told him to come down not long before, bustled about the stove finishing up and laying our breakfast. Arthur was nowhere to seen, but his friends and Ginny were starting to load their plates up with eggs and toast and sausage

“Good morning, Harry.” He greeted. “Tea?”

“Yes please sir.” Harry sat and watched as, with a wave of a wand, a cup of tea poured and laid itself in front of him all on its own. Magic really was wonderful sometimes.

“Now, I’m very sorry to disturb your morning Harry, but I’m afraid there are some pressing things to go over.” Dumbledore sighed, and reached into his robe pocket to pull out a roll of parchment. “Earlier in the summer, I asked the goblins if I could have a gander at Sirius’ will.”

Harry tensed. Oh no. Did he know? Was he about to be kicked out of Hogwarts for accidentally becoming a necromancer? Hermione had slowed her eating and was obviously listening in, and Ron was casting Harry glances every few seconds.

“I have a copy of it I got then right here with me. It’s more of an overview than anything.” He held the roll out to Harry, who took it a bit awkwardly.

He unrolled it and read it over. All things he knew already. Money and such, political sounding things, and two buildings. Was that what this was about? Grimmuald Place? He gave Dumbledore a curious glance.

“As you can see, Sirius left you, among other things, Number 12 Grimmuald Place.” He took a sip of his tea.

“Well, you and the Order are welcome to keep using it as headquarters.” Harry shrugged.

“Thank you very much Harry.” Dumbledore smiled at him kindly. “There may be a bit of an issue with that, however.”

Harry blinked at him, confused.

After a short pause Dumbledore started again. “You see, it is entirely possible that with how dedicated the Blacks have been to their lineage, That the house itself has been cursed so that only a Pureblood may own it.”

Harry nodded, remembering Sirius’ shouting matches with the portrait of his mother, the way he spat about blood purity like the words itself were toxic.

“This unforntuately means that the next pureblood Black in line would inherit it despite Sirius’ wishes.” He drew in a breath, beard rising and falling with his shoulders. “That Black would be Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Harry felt his blood run cold. No. There was no way he would let that woman, Sirius’ murderer, steal his house away. Even if Sirius had detested the place, it still reminded Harry of him and he refused to see Bellatrix’s grubby little claws anywhere near it. Dread and anger burned inside him.

“Luckily, there is a very simple way to test all of this.” Dumbledore nodded seriously. Harry blinked and tried to push away the storm inside him as the elder man swished his wand sharply.

Harry followed his hand, which seemed to be darker and a bit more shriveled than he last remembered. He opened his mouth to ask about it, but was interrupted by the arrival of a very small, very loud form.

“Won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t!” It screeched, voice raspy and high. Kreacher looked just as miserable as usual, arguably more.

“You see Harry, you have also inherited -”

“Kreacher won’t do it! Kreacher won’t!” It’s bloodshot eyes glared a hole into the old wizard.

“Now -”

“Won’t, won’t, won’t!”

“Now if you have inherited all that belongs to the House of Black, the easiest way to tell is if you simply give Kreacher here an order.” Dumbledore looked a bit put out at having to raise his voice above the racket, but plowed on nonetheless.

Harry looked at Kreacher.

Kreacher looked at Harry.

Kreacher’s eyes widened and he shut his mouth with a click.

Harry opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “Kreacher . . .” He started, but trailed off. He wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to say. Kreacher continued to look at him with some mixture of suspicion and submission. “Do a little dance.” It was the best he had really.

Kreacher hopped up and down oddly and waved himself around a bit, scowling but not spitting any more sour words. Ron muffled a laugh in a bite of toast, and Ginny didn’t even bother with that. Each were pinned with a truly nasty look form the elf. He stopped after a second and squinted a bit at Harry. “Is that enough, Master.”

Harry nodded. “Uh, yes Kreacher.” He gave Dumbledore a somewhat panicked look.

Dumbledore beamed at him. “Well, that solves that then. I’ll let the others know Number 12 is safe now.”

Harry smiled back at him. “Of course sir.” He looked back at Kreacher. “Erm.” He had no love for the elf. Just about the opposite in fact. Sirius’ death was as much his fault as anyone else’s, and that if nothing else made the sight of him turn Harry’s stomach. He really, really didn’t want him. “Do I have to keep him here, with me?”

“Of course not Harry.” Dumbledore assured him. “There is always room for him at the Hogwarts kitchens, and you could of course just send him back home to Number 12 as well.”

Harry frowned. The grimy little elf and the large, grimy house deserved each other as far as he was concerned. “Go back to Grimmuald Place.” He ordered.

The nasty elf gave him a little half bow and cracked out of existence. 

“You did exellently Harry.” Dumbledore assured him, before turning to the Weasley matriarch, who was just settling down herself. “Now, Molly, I hate to ask of course, but Number 12 truly flourished with your touch.”

“If you want me there organizing the clean up just come out and say so.” Mrs Weasley huffed at him.

“I would appreciate that very much Molly. You have been doing such an excellent job of it.” The old man smiled.

“Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt. Bill will he arriving in just a few days and I’m sure he can look after the Burrow for me. Children?” She turned a serious face to them. “You do not have to come if you don’t want to.”

“We’d love to.” Hermione couldn’t answer fast enough. Ron gave casual nod, and ginny just shrugged.

“Yeah.” Harry added.

“Well then, I do have to be off.” Dumbledore stood. “Thank you very much for the Tea.” He disapparated with a crack.

“Boys,” Mrs Weasley huffed, “no manners at all.” She nodded and gave the four of them around the table a stern look. “If you want to come with you four had best get packing.”

“After breakfast.” Ron responded, swallowing a bit of egg.

“After breakfast.” Mrs Weasley agreed. “Now Harry dear, make yourself a plate, and don't be shy about it.”

\-----

“So, why are we here?” Harry sat crosslegged on his bed, watching his friends. Bill was supposed to show up some time that evening, which meant a few hours before the population of the Burrow had all loaded into the Floo and headed to Grimmuald. Mrs Weasley was intent on having it all set up and ready to go with dinner on the table when Bill arrived. Which meant lots of cleaning and dinner preparations all happening very quickly. Which was why they were all hiding out in his and Ron’s room, which was just out of the way enough, being on the second floor and all, that no one would stumble in on them and demand they help.

Hermione paused in her inspection of a nearly empty bookshelf, which had no doubt been cleaned of anything nasty or dark before the arrived. ”Isn’t it obvious Harry? What better place to learn more about what happened to you then here, surrounded by books on . . . On dark magic and history and who knows what else.” She paused a bit on dark magic, nose scrunching up just a little before plowing on. ”Even if the Order has started on cleaning the third floor, which it most definitely looks like they haven’t, we’d still have who knows how many floors that have been completely untouched.”

“Yeah mate, I’d kinda figured too, you know.” Ron poked his head out of his trunk.

Huh. That . . . Even with how uncomfortable they were with he idea, the thought that they’d be alright spending the rest of the summer here, exploring a dark, cursed building and researching dark and awful things to help him, they were still here and still determined. Harry felt a soft sort of warmth at the idea and gave them both a grateful smile.

“Si-” Hermione coughed. “Sirius said once that the Library was on the fifth floor.”

Harry nodded around the lump in his throat. Yeah. A library would help.

“Bill!” Mrs Weasley cried, voice carrying up the stairs.

“Time to go down then I guess.” Ron stood and stretched before heading to the door. Harry hopped off after him.

The downstairs, and the stairs themselves, were quite a bit cleaner than he remembered from his trip that morning. Someone had dusted very thoroughly at the very least. 

Bill stood tall in the little living room, turning to face them with a bright smile. He also wasn’t alone. “Harry! Ron! Hermione! It’s so good to see you. You’ve all met Fleur haven't you?” 

Harry nodded and smiled at her. Ron froze in the doorway, Hermione had to elbow him out of the way.

“It’s good to see you again Fleur.” She said.

“And you too, Hermione.” Fleur’s smile was dazzling and her thick French accent had eased a little since he’d seen her in the tournament, though not very much. “And you Harry. How have you been?” She looked concerned about him. That was okay. Harry was concerned about him too.

Harry shrugged at her. “Well enough I guess. How’s, uh, your sister doing?”

“Gabrielle,” Fleur gave him a playful wink. “And she’s doing very well, asks about you all the time you know.”

Harry blushed. “That’s good.” He muttered, head turned down a little.

“Anyway, now that we’re all here,” Bill started. To Harry’s surprise they were, with Mr and Mrs Weasley both standing, and Ginny hanging back a little. He’d just been distracted by the new arrivals and hadn’t really payed them much mind. “Fleur and I have an announcement to make.”

He put an arm around her shoulders in a sort of half hug and pulled her to his side. He looked down at her, and she looked up at him, and Harry felt decidedly awkward because somehow, that little gesture seemed entirely too intimate. “Fleur and I are engaged. We’re thinking of holding the wedding some time next year. At the Burrow, if that’s alright with you Mum.”

Mrs Weasley’s mouth had fallen open in shock. Harry did a quick sweep of the room. It seemed like everyone was just about frozen.

“Congratulations.” Harry said, a bit awkwardly. “The Burrow sounds like a great place for a wedding.” Not that he knew anything about weddings. He’d never been to one, or seen one on the telly, or in a magazine. All he knew about weddings was that they were very fancy, and very meaningful, and something you did when you loved someone very much. He’d seen a picture of his parents at theirs and his Aunt and Uncle at theirs, but both seemed very different other than the basic white dress thing. Still, it seemed like the thing to say.

That didn’t break the silence, it just settled after him like a thick, wet blanket.

“You must love each other very much.” He added, helpfully.

“We do.” Bill smiled at him thankfully.

“How did you, erm, propose?” Harry asked. He really hoped someone else started talking soon. Or at least moving. Or breathing.

“Bill proposed on our one year anniversary.” Fleur sighed and put one hand on her chest and looked at Bill in a way that mad Harry feel even more uncomfortable. “Right by the lake I pushed him in on our second date. There were lights and candles and it was so very romantic.”

“One year!” Mrs Weasley spluttered. Oh, thank Merlin. “Why that’s just . . . Irresponsible!”

“You and Dad did the same.” Bill frowned at her.

“Well, yes, but,” Mrs Weasley gave a huff. “Why don’t we all sit down for dinner. You can tell us all a bit about yourself Fleur dear.” She headed right back to the kitchen at speed. “Oh I do hope nothing has burned while I was away.”

Mr Weasley gave Bill a firm pat on the shoulder and smiled gently at Fleur. “I’d best make sure she doesn’t burn herself.” He chuckled, following after his wife at a much more average pace.

“Congratulations.” Hermione smiled at the pair. It was a bit thin, but she did seem mostly happy for them. Harry be he looked a bit thin too, caught up in all of this.

“Yeah.” Ron added cheerfully.

“Yeah.” Ginny added, not at all cheerfully.

“Well, dinner smells delicious.” Bill said, still sounding optimistic even if it was a little forced now.

“It does.” Fleur smiled.

“Yeah.” Harry booked it out of the room. Dinner sounded like a great reason not to talk to anyone.

To his surprise though, dinner went rather smoothly. Fleur chatted a little, mostly with Mr Weasley about his work, and some with Mrs Weasley about wedding plans. Though that last one got a little bumpy, no one was outright rude, which had to count for something.

Mostly though, Bill took up the silence by talking about his own work. Being a Curse Breaker sounded very exciting. He talked all about tombs and ruins and old rune arrays, which Harry thought was a bit boring but Hermione ate up, and how to avoid traps and protective curses. He told a lot of stories, one about man he’d worked with had a little bag of meat he’d throw at anything he thought might be cursed, and how that had saved them from a nasty one involving something he thought was a bit to graphic for the table and pointedly didn’t share. He’d said that with a wink.

Harry decided that Bill might just be the coolest person he’d ever met.

\-----

“Come on Ron!” Hermione urged excitedly, like they were going on a safari and not exploring the most dangerous and dark building any of them had ever been inside of without any adult assistance or observation, not they they ever had that last bit.

“Hermione, I just don’t get how you can be so bloody excited about this.” Ron groaned in a soft whisper. They didn’t think there was anyone awake to catch them up, but they were using their inside voices all the same.

“Yeah.” Harry responded. The building was creepy. The walls were creepy. The paintings were creepy. The floors were creaky. And that was just during the day.

“Where’s your sense of adventure.” She huffed “We’re here for research.”

The boys identical groans spelled out what they thought of that.

“Damn.” Hermione swore. Fifth doorknob locked. Things were not goin well.

The next was the same, and the next, On their either try they hit a stroke of luck though.

The door swung open to a dusty study, with a dusty desk and dusty bookshelves and a dusty purple velvet chair in a corner.

Hermione pulled our a feather duster. “Time to see what we’ve got.”

Harry thought she was crazy “Yes Hermione.” He said.

The books were labeled all sorts of things, from “The Darkeste of Artes”, which Hermione cleverly plucked off the shelf, to “Chicken Racing For Sport In the Twelfth Century”. They had three books stowed away in a messenger bag Hermione had brought with them, and old leather thing that looked like it had a few run ins with a baseball bat, when Ron let out a louder than appropriate yawn.

“Wake me when you’re through, eh?” He said, and collapsed into the purple armchair. It let out a great poof of dust and a fearsome growl.

Oh. Oh no.

Harry was in action before his mind caught up to what he was seeing, which was embroidered tentacles attempting to pull his red haired friend into the cushioned depths. He kicked one, which didn’t do much good. He tried to tear another, similarly fruitless.

“Harry!” Hermione called. 

The boy, dark hair swinging in a circle as his head whipped around, just barely caught the fire poker tossed to him. He started to do some real damage then. Bruising and beating purple upholstery. One or two times it tried to have a go at him, and he didn’t have enough vision in the dim room room see what Hermione was up to but he hoped she was doing alright in her battle.

It took several, breath stealing minutes before the two friends were beating a perfectly normal looking chair, their friend sprawled at their feet a few paces back.

“I think,” Ron panted, “I think it’s had enough.”

“Oh, Ron” Hermione sounded an impressive mixture of furious and concerned. It was a specialty of hers at this point.

“Oops?” Ron shrugged. Then coughed again. “Damn dust.”

“Why didn’t you yell?” Harry asked, helping his friend to his feet. 

“One of the little buggers had me round the mouth.” He growled, then spat on the floor, presumably ridding himself of yet more dust.

“Ah.” Harry said intelligently. 

“We’ve got to be more careful.” Hermione sighed softly. “You’ve got to be more careful. What if that trap had been worse?”

What if they hadn’t been able to save him? The thought lit up in all their heads bright enough to light the room clearly. Yeah.

“We will be.” Harry promised. Then he turned to Hermione hopefully. “Now, about those books?”


	3. Our Brave Hero Does A Bit Of Exploring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see the expanding consequences of the incident at the Ministry, and our hero's friends get perhaps a little overzealous.

“Ready?” Hermione asked for the third time as they prepared to take the steps to the fourth floor.

It had been a few days since their last, somewhat disastrous trip our for books, and in that time Harry would like to think they had learned a few things.

Number one, don’t just go touching bookshelves. It had lead to a rather painful welt on Hermione’s hand. Bookshelves can be cursed too it seems.

Number two, enough WD40 can take care of a good number of sticking charms, and when that didn’t work unscrewing the hinges could. Hermione had snuck out a window to visit a nearly muggle hardware store, and while they hadn’t been caught it had been a close thing. Lock picking, something that Ron had picked up from several of his brothers but was by no means a master at, was also a useful skill when the locks didn’t try to bite you. Literally. So muggle methods did occasionally come in handy.

Number three, don’t touch anything. A vase had come to life after Harry had bumped into it and tried to eat him. Harry had reflexively diffinido’ed it, and while no letter from the Ministry had come yelling about expelling him he hadn’t wanted to risk it again. That had been a tense day or two waiting.

Number four, Bill was a goldmine. His little shared tid bits about ward breaking and curse evasion had saved them several times already. If Mrs Weasley wondered where her bacon had gotten off too, it was in little bags the all carried with them to toss at anything and everything that might be cursed. Sometimes Harry felt like he was in the world’s scariest petting zoo and just feeding the exhibits. He’d seen everything from picture frames to stair steps devour his bacon and was beginning to get a bit of a sixth sense about curses from it.

It was with this knowledge that the three of them felt confident enough to aim for their highest priority goal: the library. It was on the fifth floor, three up from their bedrooms and two up from their highest point of exploration thus far. The house seemed to get deadlier the higher you went, but that wasn’t going to stop them. They needed the book and they needed them badly.

So they set off, bacon bags filled to the teeth and fireplace pokers at the ready. Because truly, in a world so ful of magic, this was exactly the setup you wanted to have when exploring the Black Family Manor. But they were nothing is not Gryffindors.

The boys nodded solemnly.

Harry dropped a strip of bacon on the first three steps. Number two was swallowed right up. Well, right, skipping that one then. He started first repeating the pattern and calling instructions bellow him. Hermione followed, and then Ron, and somehow, miraculously, they made it up the stairs in on piece. Something in the back of Harrys mind whispered that perhaps if that was his idea of success managing another floor and a half wasn’t the best idea. Harry ignored it dutifully.

The hallway was dim in the afternoon light, but then Grimmuald was always dim, and dusty, and murky. Harry crinkled his nose, sliding carefully though thin hallways crowded with tables and trinkets and odd looking objects he dared not touch.

There was a clatter behind him.

Harry turned, slowly, wide eyed. Ron was stating down at a vase knocked from a thin, tall stand. It didn’t move. It didn’t move.

Crash! Ron brought his poker down on it.

Ron looked up at them with a sheepish shrug. “Better safe, and all that.”

Hermione let out a grateful breath, and Harry smiled shakily at him. They made it to the end of the hallway safely.

Of course, this was where the difficult part came in. They had no map of the Manor, and were more or less fumbling in the dark to find the library. So when faced with the two turns ahead of him . . . Harry turned helpless eyes on his comrades.

“Left” Hermione suggested, half overlapped by Ron’s “Right.” The two traded disgruntled looks.

“Squeak!” Uric nosed from his shoulder, nuzzling to the left.

“Left it is.” Harry shrugged. Two against one and all.

“Yeah Hermione,” Ron snickered. “At least the undead whosawhatzit agrees with you.”

Harry didn’t see Hermione’s response, but he heard Ron’s soft “Oi!” shortly after and muffled a laugh.

The left hallway was a bit wider, and gave them more room to maneuver. They didn’t have to dodge between obstacles quite as much, that is. Harry would swear this place was laid out to be as unfriendly to visitors as possible.

Another left turn, then a right, both by popular vote and decided by Uric since his friends were too busy squabbling to come to a consensus.

Then they came to three doorways. Of course, Harry knew just what this required. He drew out his trusty bag of bacon and threw a little square at each of the doors. One zapped it fried with purple electricity, not promising. The second piece just stuck to the crusty wood. The third piece just flew through the doorway as if nothing was there.

Harry offered Uric a small slice of bacon. The little thing took the raw meat in its hands and began nibbling away. Harry wondered if normal mice ate raw meat, but decided probably not and that he probably shouldn’t think about it too much further. Uric squeaked at the second door. Harry nodded in understanding at it, even though it was just perched on his shoulder.

He opened the door and . . . 

What was that?

Inside was a vague, dark shape taken up by an increasing number of eyes. They both stared at each other for a moment. The thing shuffled forwards. It began slowly opening a great maw with many teeth. A rasp of sulfurous air wafted forwards. Something was deeply, primally wrong with the image before him, and Harry felt his blood turn to ice. His heart beat like war drums in his ears. The thing began to ripple.

Harry turned crazed eyes towards his paralyzed companions.

Ron turned on his heels and ran, Hermione followed shortly after. Harry only paused to slam the door shut. They didn’t worry about curses, about nasty, man eating objects, and yes, Harry did see that music box sprout legs after being knocked over, and yes, Harry did feel oozing around his ankles. And no, Harry did not stop running until they were barricaded in his and Ron’s room, panting, wheezing, and absolutely unable to shake that nightmarish image from their mind.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Ron said through shallow breaths.

No one answered. The House of Bloody Black was what that was. 

\-----

In the days since the . . . Incident they had stuck to safer rooms on the third floor at most. They had found a few books that were, or might be, useful, but mostly they had struck out. Which was frustrating. This was supposed to be the Most Ancient and Terrible House of Black. They were supposed to have a bit more luck, even being unable to reach the library which . . . None of them wanted to think about again any time soon.

They had yet to be interrupted in their search even once, which made sense, seeing as the first floor was only mostly clean and most of the order staying there was busy finishing that up. Unfortunately . . . Well the lack of cleanliness seemed to be their downfall too.

The most useful resource they’d found so far was an old tome titled in important looking gold some Latin nonsense that translated to “Darkest of Houses” but it was so old and dense even Hermione was struggling to translate.

Which led to now, Harry lazing half under a desk in a thoroughly cobwebbed study flipping through one of the books they had smuggled into the bottom of his trunk. It had seemed interesting, all about aura based magics and the like. He had hoped t would have a clue as to why his magic was doing whatever it was it had been doing lately, but no suck luck. It was all about “Exuding Calm” and “Looking Scary” and while yeah, that was kinda wicked, it wasn’t what he was looking for at all. It wasn’t useful. At all.

Harry really felt like hitting something.

His magic, which he had been paying a lot of attention to since it the weird flares had started, crackled out of him in a sharp burst. That . . . Didn’t feel at all promising.

Something fell off of one of the ornate dark wood bookshelves, startling Harry so bad he hit his head on the bottom of the desk. It landed on the decrepit hardwood floor with a soft thunk and a cloud of dust. 

Harry stared. The dust settled. A small, trembling humanoid figure lay there, little bones realigning and rotting flesh curdling back to something resembling life.

The doxy stood, wing fragments snapping into place, and raised its head to stare at him. With its glowing, killing curse green eyes. Oh no.

Harry groaned. This was great. Just great. Exactly what he needed right now. HIs collection was growing, and he was not happy about it in the least. The little thing chittered like a squirrel, head tilting delicately to one side. Harry considered it carefully. He reached out. It didn’t move, even when reluctant fingers wrapped around the tiny body and picked it up.

He should probably get back to searching. It was too bad the shelves in this room were so obviously cursed. When he’d first come in, he’d done the now customary bacon test, and it had lit up with yellow light and the meat had turned an off grey color. Not something he wanted to mess with.

He sighed and grit his heels into the floor in frustration as he stood. How was he supposed to find anything helpful if everything was bloody cursed?

He was careful in making his way back to his room, but he didn’t see even a hint of anyone at all. Which was good. He had no idea how he would have explained the doxie, or the book, or, well, anything at all.

Less fortunately, he was assaulted as soon as the bedroom door clicked shut.

“Harry” Hermione rushed, him, eyes gleaming wickedly and smile a mile wide. “I’ve had the best idea!”

Harry blinked, then grinned at his friend’s catching enthusiasm. “What?”

“We’re going to sneak into Knockturn Alley!”

\-----

It was nearing midnight. The house was as quiet as the dead. Hermione led their little procession through the fog of fragile silence, creeping towards the front door. They’d have snuck out a window, wary of Mrs Black’s harpy impression waking the house, but the woman was, apparently, terrified of Uric. And seeing as the little mouse was sat grudgingly on top of Hermione’s head, the glow of its unnerving Avada eyes would be the first thing the portrait saw.

Harry tugged awkwardly at his robe’s collar under his cloak. Neither were his. Well, they were his now, but they hadn’t used to be. They had all pilfered robes and such for the trip from the bedrooms around the house. It was Ron’s idea, so they wouldn’t be caught out in their school things. It was also Ron’s idea to grab a few more for themselves, for casual wear and the like, just because the robes were nice and it wasn’t like anyone was using them. 

Continued exploration had shown them exactly how valuable the contents of the old house really were. Aside from books there were all sorts of lovely treasures in the Manor. There was a lot of beautiful, if normally tarnished, jewelry that Hermione had adored. Old chess sets aplenty, mostly in good condition too. Ron had swooned over one done in obsidian and moonstone that was styled after dragons. Harry, personally, absolutely adored the old racing brooms. Sure, it wasn’t like he could ride any of them, and none of them could hold a candle to his Firebolt, but they were all works of art and one of them, according to Ron at least, trailed fire. Which was beyond wicked.

A floorboard creaked. All three flinched and paused, freezing midstep. Nothing stirred. Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. They continued.

The front door shut behind them and the tension melted from the air. So long as they were able to catch a cab and didn’t take too long in the Alley, they should all be back before anyone noticed they’d been gone in the first place. Harry had brought his gold pouch, and since he always just about shoveled gold in and never bough much of anything for himself, there was a rather lot of gold in there. Nearly three hundred galleons, a number which had Ron spluttering until he turned red.

They caught a cab easily enough, and no one paid any mind to three cloaked figures making their way through the Cauldron. Wizards were just like that, it seemed. Whether keen to mind their own business or just clueless though, Harry couldn't say. Though given how much they liked sticking their noses into his, he’d bet on the latter.

Diagon was practically deserted, the only building that wasn’t dark was Gringotts.

Knockturn, on the other hand, rustled like a flock of birds with the swishing of robes and dark murmurs and glowed with low lantern light. Not nearly as menacing as it looked during the day.

Ron was painfully tense, and Harry could tell Hermione was trying hard not to fidget as they crossed into they alley. There were hags next to stands piled so high with murky jars swimming with dark shapes that only magic could have supported them. Storefronts were dirty, with suspiciously normal items sitting in boxed glass on display. Hermione but a path through the sparse but omnipresent crowd towards a store whose front window was crowded with stacks and stacks of books.

Hinges creaked as they entered. Books piled in precarious towers and on tilted shelves filled the room. A counter space was just barely visible. There was a handsome man behind the small clear space raised one bored eyebrow, and went back to paging through a large yellowed tome.

The three shared a nod as they split up, browsing as efficiently as they could. Which for Harry was questionably efficient at best. He found one book, entitled Inheritances and Other Magical Maladies, and another book on the history of death magic, on his quarter of an hour of browsing. Ron only had one, and even just form the tilt of his shoulders Harry could tell he was quite put out. Hermione had a small stack, but Harry wondered how many of those were for her and how many held what they came for. She unloaded her books onto Ron and marched straight to the teller, back straight and boys trailing obediently behind her.

“Do you have any books on necromancy?” She asked the bored young man haughtily, arms crossed.

The handsome man jerked back, blinking stoney blue eyes in surprise. “Well well little miss, that’s quite a dangerous hobby you have there.” A vaguely mocking smirk played on his lips. “I’m afraid that’s one subject very much banned by the Ministry.”

Hermione snorted. “So, do you have anything or not.”

After a moment of curious scrutiny, eyes sweeping over the group as a whole, the other chuckled. “As a matter of fact, little miss, I do happen to carry something you may be interested in.”

The man ducked into a back room and came back barely a minute later with three old looking books. 

His voice was ominously soft when he spoke again. “These are very rare finds, little miss. Are you sure you want to take this risk? I’d rather these weren't found and burned if you’re incapable of keeping them safe.”

“We know what we’re doing.” Hermione nodded.

The man chuckled, even as he took the books from the boys and tallied them up the total. “Maybe you do little miss. That will be 128 galleons.”

Ron choked on his breath.

Harry obediently counted out the amount, handing it over to too soft hands. Amused eyes followed them out, and it was only when the hinges creaked to a close behind them that Harry let out a sigh of relief. He could see Hermione shudder faintly. That man had felt . . . Off.

The young witch pulled out a familiar beaten leather messenger bag and slipped the books into it. Harry watched, fascinated. The leather didn’t even bulge. It wasn’t the time now, but he’d have to remember to ask her about it when they got back to Grimmuald Place.

Three stores, half a dozen books later, and one very creepy old man later they found they were all exhausted. There was one promising looking store left, but it was past a cluster of shimmering skinned, very loud, very handsome probably vampires. Hermione was tense, only outdone by Ron who was stiff enough for Harry to feel it and Ron was behind him.

“Relax.” The young savior hissed under his breath. Hermione slumped minutely and rolled her shoulders back. He assumed, hoped really, that Ron did something similar.

One foot in front of the other. Come on. You can make it. DOn’t look. Oh no, one is coming your way. Maybe he’s just crossing the alley?

The dark skinned, starry white toothed man came to stop right in front of him came to a stop right in front of him and leaned in. Harry did not tense. Bullies could smell fear, and he bet this predator could as well.

“Well hello there little tidbit. What mischief are you up to this fine evening?” His voice was sharp and warm, like cinnamon or bitter tea.

Harry sucked in a breath. How in Merlin’s name was he supposed to answer that? Was the other man flirting with him?

He felt tiny claws scurrying up his back up perch just under his ear. Out of the corner of his eye, killing curse green glowed faintly. Uric hissed like a particularly menacing kettle at the intrusion to Harry’s personal space.

The probably vampire backpedaled a few steps. “You don’t have to get pissy, tidbit, I was just asking.” His arms waved leisurely in surrender, face curving into a heavy frown.

“Excuse him.” Another voice cut in, arm curling around the probably vampire’s shoulders. Harry twitched, harshly clamping down on his startle reflex. He could hear Ron suck in a sharp breath behind him. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t seen the other coming.

The newcomer stuck his hand out, flashing an easy smile. “He’s always been a bit of an ass. I’m Ray, and I’d like to say, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Harry shook probably a vampire number two’s hand after a bare moment of hesitation, keeping silent. He had no idea what to say, really.

“Our Monarch is very interested in meeting you, if you’re ever in the mood.” TH pale man practically purred. He didn’t seem to mind his silence, and slipped a small lump of something into Harry’s palm with a wriggle of his hand.

“I wish you a good night, Lord Mortis.” The pale probably a vampire dragged his confused companion away to the eerily spectating group.

Harry stood, paralyzed, hand clenched around whatever it was he had been given. What was that? What had just happened? How had he known? What was going on?

“Harry,” Hermione murmured, “we have to go.”

Harry nodded, steeled himself, and marched to the final stop on their little less than legal field trip. The cold object he had been slipped sat heavy in his hand, then heavier still in the pocket he slipped it into.

It was complete bust. Of the two shelves of books on display there was nothing useful, barely anything dark truly. The shopkeeper was far too suspicious of them to help at all, to top it off. At least when they came out the probably vampires were gone.

Nobody else bothered them, but then the trio scuttled out of the alley as fast as they could without actually running probably had something to do with that.

\-----

Lucius had struck gold. Well, no, a no name clerk at the Ministry had struck gold, and passed it up the chain to Fudge, who had called upon his most trusted advisor to interpret. But even still. Lucius was nearly giddy.

Lord Mortis had shown up performing magic on the Trace.

Which meant that the Lord was either underage himself, or posing as such very convincingly. Lucius would bet his fortune on it being the later. Which just increased his chance of finding the Lord by quite a substantial amount. Because it meant he has some idea where the Lord might be hiding, simple as following one clue to its logical conclusion. The Lord may just be hiding away at Hogwarts.

Draco had been informed of course, and the Dark Lord knew, because of course he did, Lucius wasn’t suicidal. All that was left was to bring Severus up to speed. 

But that . . . That was for later. Now, he was going to have a lovely evening with his lovely wife. A private dinner on their balcony, a night in their rooms, together, alone. Lucius stretched as he stood, walking through the halls in contented silence. 

Narcissa was waiting for him, looking more beautiful than any veela. She smiled at him, and Lucius smiled back. He had been so lucky to be betrothed to her. Powerful, elegant, cunning, gorgeous -

The door crashed open.

Lucius turned around, snarl on his lips, wand out and curse at the ready. The low level Death Eater he had assigned to keep an ear to the Alley gossip stood shaking at the door long terrified and resolute. He was breathing heavily, chest pumping up and down as is he had run up from the first floor apparition point.

“L-Lord Mortis,” were the first breathless, gasping words that came tumbling from his mouth. The elder Malfoy’s blood froze. “He was seen in Knockturn Alley with two companions. The vampires, they spoke with him.”

Morgana’s sagging tits. Two companions? Vampires? How was he supposed to deal with this?

\-----

Harry never thought he’d ever describe Grimmuald Place as warm, but here he was all the same.

“Checkmate!” Ron grinned cheerfully, watching as his little stone rook decapitated one of Harry’s pieces. He couldn’t say which, really, he hadn’t been paying very much attention. “You know it’s no fun if you’re not even trying Harry.” Ron sounded a little pouty.

“It’s not like I could ever beat you.” Harry ducked his head with a smile.

“Well, you certainly can’t if you don't try.” Ron said. “Reset!” the chess pieces began to pull themselves back together and march back to their starting positions. “You’ll do better this time Harry, I’m sure you will.”

“Sure Ron,” Harry indulged. He turned in his chair, facing a couch a few paces back and to his right. “Hey, Hermione, you want to see Ron beat me again?”

Hermione raised her dark head from her book. “Not now Harry, I’m doing a bit of pleasure reading. But you boys have fun.”

Harry shrugged and turned back to Ron. Hermione had been so busy researching for him lately she probably hadn’t had much time to read for fun. Not that he could imagine what reading for fun looked like, but Hermione liked it so that was good enough for him. “So what were you saying again?”

“Oh yeah!” Ron lit up like a Dursley Christmas tree. “So Charlie was saying, in his last letter, that one of the ridgebacks had a clutch just the other day, and that the whole reserve was scrambling. Apparently ridgebacks don't do that much, I guess. Anyway he was saying that . . .”

Harry listened to his friend ramble on, first about his brother, and then about how much school next year was going to bite, and how NEWT level potions were going to eat them alive. Harry agreed with him on that one. He didn’t know how Snape could make their lives even more miserable but he was sure the man would find a way. 

The game played out, and another one as Order members began to filter in. Tonks joined the pair on a chair close to them, and tossed Harry hints throughout the game, though even with them he ended up losing. Moody ignored them and headed straight for the kitchen, and Professor Lupin joined them after saying hello to Mrs Weasley, speaking in soft tones to Hermione.

It filled Harry slowly, the feeling of belonging. Of home. In this dark and dusty and condemned place. It was a bit odd, and sent him tilting a bit inside. Not so much the sense of belonging. That always did it a bit, but not so much. It was the feeling and the place and the people, Tonks and Professor Lupin and the others milling about, and the fact that Sirius wasn’t here with him. It was all a bit much, but as Mrs Weasley called for dinner in a loud and cheery voice he was very, very glad of it.


	4. Our Brave Hero Makes A Bit Of Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the chapter, our hero and his friends start to see of the fruits of their efforts.

“Hermione?” Harry asked cautiously, voice still clouded by sleep, approaching his friend like one would a cornered animal. “What are you doing?”

Harry could almost hear bones cracking as her head whipped up, eyes frantic, hands pausing their fervent search through the book stash the trio had moved to what had looked to be some Black or another’s old school trunk. It took s second, for her to really register his presence. Harry watched it happen with some amusement. She ducked her head and let out a low, strangled squeak in embarrassment when she did.

“Go back to sleep Harry.” She murmured, eyes darting back to the books. “I’ll explain in the morning.”

Harry snorted, but spoke in hushed tones. “Seriously, Hermione? It’s Merlin knows how early in the morning, I’m already up, and you're here digging through a small mountain of books with only, what,” he gestured at her vaguely, “that jar of bluebell flames. You’ve got me dead curious as to what you’re up to.”

Harry couldn’t tell in the light, Hermione looked like her face was on fire. Her eyes trailed uncertainly over the scattered books. “I’m not sure if I’ve found anything, not yet, not really.”

Harry nodded and sat. “Anything I can do to help then?”

“Maybe . . . ” Hermione worried her lip between uncautious teeth. “One of these books has a bit in it about the effects of emotions on accidental magic. It’s got a sort of dusty blue cover?”

The young wizard’s eyes swept over the mess his friend had made around herself. It was absolute chaos and in the waxing light of false dawn and the dim blue of the jar of everlasting bluebell flames, Hermione’s end of semester rune project lat year, everything looked a sort of dusty blue. Of course, Harry had something that could help a little. There was a not insignificant stack of everburning candles he had stacked away in his trunk for late nights and summers. He’d bought a lot when he’d first found them in Hogsmeade, thinking the everburning thing was an exaggeration, but so far he had yet to burn down even one.

It didn’t take long to get the candles set up. Hermione continued to empty and sort through the expanded chest, and while she did Harry got to work putting the rest of the books into neater stacks.

A month ago he couldn't have even imagined even touching some of these books, dark as they were. But now . . . He needed them to find out exactly what exactly was happening to him this time. Though, really, some of the books in the mix were just things they’d each found interesting.

Darkest Death: Secrets of the Grave. Ew, shudder.

101 Bloodiest Wizarding Battles. Probably Ron, if he had to guess.

Gamp’s Eighth Law as it Applies to the Arithmantic Process of creating Spells. If Hermione hadn’t picked that one, Harry was as fat as Dudley.

Creating Potions on the Battlefield. Also Hermione he was sure.

The next two books leaked malice like Lavender Brown did flowery perfume, and Harry didn’t even bother with the titles, wiping his hands on his pants to get rid of the nasty feeling once they were well and stacked.

Bloodee Rituals of the Fourth Centuree. Now that sounded unpleasant.

Next was . . . 

“Hermione?” Harry called softly.

The witch hummed absently and half turned her head to look at him.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” He help up an average sized book with a faded blue cover and pages aged blonde. There wasn’t a title, any words on the cover having worn away some time ago. But then, Hermione hadn’t given him a title, just a sort of vague color description, which this book matched.

In quite literally the blink of an eye Hermione was flipping through the crisp pages. Hands clenched, paused. Hermione scanned down one page, and then the next, and then the next. There was a moment of silence, of stillness. She shut the book with a snap and a loud crow of triumph. 

Ron fell out of bed with a thunk.

“Whazzat?” He groaned, prefacing it with a loud, pained noise somewhat resembling a dying bear.

Harry stifled a laugh, forcing it out in a snort instead. 

“Ah, you okay Ron?” Hermione called. She successfully masked the amusement in her voice, but didn’t bother hiding her smile.

A weak rattling noise crawled out from behind the bed. Harry bit one knuckle to keep from laughing audibly.

It took almost half an hour for Ron to start speaking in coherent sentences, and until after breakfast two hours later for him to give the other two permission to speak about anything “thinky”.

Hermione was deeply impatient by the time the door finally clicked shut, sealing the three into the boys room. She threw herself onto Harry’s bed with a deep sigh.

“Can we talk now, Ron?” She bit out.

“Yes, Hermione, we can talk now.” He sighed softly.

She perked up immediately. “So, last night I was having a bit of trouble sleeping and decided to do a bit of light reading to settle me. I was going through the books we had gotten from Knockturn, one about old family lines and their traditions specifically. Apparently, when the Lord of the family, or any member really, can’t have children but wishes to continue their line, they have to adopt.”

“I’ve never heard of a pureblood family adopting.” Ron frowned.

Hermione grinned triumphantly. “See, that’s because you wouldn’t even be able to tell! If the Family Magics accept the adopted, then the adopted gets a huge dose of them, the Family Magics, that is. They’re absolutely fascinating. Everything I’ve read describes them almost sentient, a huge departure from most wizards attitu-”

Harry cleared his throat before she could go off on one of her distracted monologues.

Hermione stopped and cleared her throat awkwardly. “Thank you, Harry. Anyway, there have been a few cases of families adopting really close friends into their families as well. I couldn’t find the specifics of the process exactly, but there was this old story.” She paused for a moment and took a deep breath, practically vibrating and making eye contact with both boys to make sure they were listening. “So, supposedly there was this old family, I couldn’t find which, that only had one member left. She were old, and close to death. Which meant the family would have died with her. But she did this old ritual so that the Family Magics would live on, sleeping essentially until they could find a new host. Then, a few years later, this muggleborn snuck into a Wizengamot meeting to see more about this law that could have made it illegal to teach muggleborns wand magic, which is ridiculous. The number of purebloods out there wouldn’t have been enough to sustain the population, especially considering that halfblood births would in all likelihood decreased as the education gap between purebloods and muggleborns increased. I mean, there are few enough of us as it is, to sabota-”

Ron cleared his throat. It was his turn to cut off the rant this time.

Hermione threw him a grateful, if somewhat disgruntled look. “Well, see, the story goes that this muggleborn was caught, and would have been executed if he couldn’t prove he was from a pure family. So he claimed to be a member of that dead family, and the Family Magics judged him worthy, so he became one just like that. A member of that family, that is. There weren’t a lot of specifics really, about how it happened or what it looked like.”

“So that’s what you think happened to me?” Harry ’s brow furrowed. “Why I’m suddenly resurrecting the dead?”

“Well,” Hermione chewed on her bottom lip, “sort of. See, that could explain you being a Mortis, but not really the, ah, the necromancy.” She shuddered at the term. “But, the book mentioned a little later that sometimes when witches and wizards from old families hit their Magical Majority, the rush of Family Magics can cause accidental magic until they get used to it. There was barely a paragraph about it all though, but then, well, were you feeling particularly emotional when you . . . Resurrected . . . Those two?”

Harry thought back. “Yeah, a bit I guess.” To be completely fair though, he was emotional a lot.

Hermione smiled tentatively. “Then my best guess is accidental magic and whatever new connection you have to the Mortis Family Magics acting up.”

“Huh.” Harry muttered. He guessed that made sense. But . . . 

“How do we make sure, you know, whenever Harry starts feeling his feelings or whatever, that he doesn’t raise half of Hogwarts’ dead pets?” Ron interrupted Harry’s thoughts, taking the words straight from his mouth.

“Well,” Hermione shifted nervously, “I’m not really sure.”

Well, damn.

\-----

“What do you mean I have to learn Latin?” Harry stared up at Hermione, utterly baffled. Here he and Ron were, peacefully playing Gobstones, and Hermione comes rolling in like a storm saying ridiculous things. Him? Learn another language?

Hermione huffed. “You’re a pureblood, or halfblood, but you’ll be held to pureblood standards so that only really counts so much, Lord of an ancient house of necromancers Harry, you should know Latin.” She tapped her chin in thought. “And maybe Old English as well? Or Sumerian?”

Harry backpedaled quickly. “Okay, Latin, brilliant, where do I start?”

Hermione grinned in triumph and Harry got the very distinct feeling he’d just been played. It felt like a bunch of little legs up his spine, and he got it a lot more than he’d like hanging around as many brilliant people as he did. The young witch handed him a glossy muggle paperback and a dusty, obviously wizarding tome “Let me know when you’ve finished, or if you need help, and we can review.”

She flounced off happily, Hogwarts robe flaring behind her and a book of dark magics under her arm. Harry shuddered. Sometimes, that girl was absolutely terrifying.

Ron looked up from dutifully studying his stones. “You gonna work on that now?”

Harry raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you want to learn Latin?”

Ron shrugged a shuffle of his shoulders that looked as supremely awkward as he did. “I know a bit. Most wizarding families do, really, but yeah. I mean, if you and Hermione know it . . . It’s just practical right?”

Harry smiled, a soft and wide stretched and lopsided thing, then ducked his head to hide it. He picked up the muggle book, and flipped the glossy cover open. He groaned.

This was going to take a while.

He pushed it over to Ron, who brightened. “Hey, I know this stuff.”

Harry turned to him with pleading eyes. Ron snickered.

“Okay so, this one means . . .”

\-----

Ginny flopped back on one of the puffy chairs that lined the edges of the most habitable of the first floor living rooms. In another corner, an older woman read from a bright red book. Other than that the room was empty.

Empty.

Just like her life.

She had come to Grimmuald, instead of staying at the Burrow with Bill and his new . . . Whatever that woman was because Harry and Ron and Hermione had all gone. She had thought they’d all be doing something together. Cleaning, or playing Gobstones, or doing summer homework, or something. Instead the three spent most of their time shuffling about Ron’s room or having disappeared completely. Up to something she was sure.

Up to what, she was less sure. And sure as shit they were leaving her out.

Hadn’t she proven herself? In Dumbledore’s Army, in the Ministry, in bloody everything. What was it she wasn’t good enough for? Wasn’t trustworthy enough for? She knew the three of them were a world unto her own, but surely she could do something to help if something was going on. Especially if it was serious. She could fight, and curse better than them too if she was allowed to use her wand, which she wasn’t because it was summer. It was summer and she was alone. Was there some secret they thought she couldn’t keep? She had kept their secrets before, hadn’t she? What was so very big that they couldn’t tell her, when they’d trusted her with so much already?

She let out a deep, deep sigh.

She would have confronted them but, well . . .

“Ginny!” Her mum called from the kitchen. “Come help with the cleanup!”

Bless her mum, but she was getting tired of rags and doxycide and big sacks of dark objects that she wasn’t allowed to look inside of.

“In a minute Mum!” She called back.

Ginny turned to look at the woman in the corner. She hadn’t even looked up. Still paging through that bright red book of hers. Ginny half wondered what it was, as she stood, and stretched, and stretched, and stretched, and finally started towards her mother voice.

Her mum puttered about a half clean room, absently waving her wand to start the mop going as she dragged a dusty rag through a shelf thick with cobwebs.

“Ginny dear, there are rags in the corner over there.” She flashed Ginny a warm smile. “Why don’t you start on the windows?”

“Yes, Mum.” Ginny sighed.

She walked over to the rags and grabbed couple and a bucket of the same pale blue liquid she’d been using to strip away dust from anything and everything she’d cleaned so far. It smelled like lilacs and she was slowly starting to hate the scent. The windows were thick with a pale yellow substance that she was fairly sure was not, at the very least, completely dust. She crinkled her nose and dunked her rag in the bucket.

“Why isn’t Ron helping with this?” She asked, putting the rag to the glass and beginning to scrub.

“He’s helping Harry grieve dear, we’ve been over this.” Her mum sighed. “That poor boy, all he must be going through. It’s so good of our Ron to help him through this grueling time.“

Ginny viciously bit back a sigh. Yes, poor Harry and so noble of Ron and Hermione to put up with him. They were up to something, and she knew it, and she was going to figure out what if it took her all summer.

\-----

“Is it working?” Harry whispered, bending down more and squinting at Ron’s carefully moving hands.

Ron growled, twisting one hand sharply in frustration. “No Harry, it isn’t, now get your bloody head outta my light.”

Harry took two small, guilty steps back.

Ron had gotten better at lock picking with practice, but he was still far from a master at it. Still, it was the subtlest way they had of getting into most of the locked and warded rooms in this damned house. Their increasingly destructive repertoire of muggle methods for breaking into rooms seemed to be falling short on this door though. The doorframe surrounding the hinges was practically shredded from a few too many goes with a crowbar. The edges of the wood were greasy with whatever dangerous muggle fluids were contained in Hermione’s stash. Ron was trying one last time with his little picks before they pulled out their last resort. Taking a hatchet to a door seemed a bit obvious, but they were getting frustrated and this was the only door on this hallway they couldn’t open. No door was going to beat them.

Ron stepped back with a huff, visibly restraining himself from throwing the little bits of metal to the ground. Harry handed him the hatchet.

He had never seen anyone as enthusiastic about destroying anything as Ron did in that moment. Not even a baby Dudley with a new toy.

It didn’t take long to make a sizable enough hole in the door. Nothing attacked Harry outright when he stuck his head through, so he figured they were safe to enter at least. He stepped through and looked around.

It was an old study, which wasn’t new. They’d found a couple in their search and all of them had been heavily cursed and not much help at all. What was new was that it was clean. It looked like the owner had just stepped out a moment ago, at it least almost did. Ink had long since dried in its well, but the dark brown quill stood silent vigil over a neat and tidy desk. Harry swiped his fingers over the dark wood. Dot a speck of came up with them. That was a little disturbing, considering the state of the rest of the house.

Harry headed over to the similarly clean dark wood book cases, pulling out his trusty bacon bag. He threw one bit. It landed on the book and stuck there wetly. He aimed another a few shelves down. Same result. No nasty curses present at all it seemed. Most Blacks guarded their possessions jealously, and while that was usually nothing tipping a shelf over wouldn't fix, that this one was so open on top of being so clean, well, it was odd. Harry wasn’t entirely sure he liked it.

Hermione approached from the other side of the wall of shelves slowly, finger trailing a careful inch from the books themselves, scanning the titles. No guarantee the books were all uncursed, after all.

Harry turned away from the shelves to the desk. There was a very short stack of parchment on it, all in Latin. A day of practice in the language didn’t give him much to go on. Certainly not enough to make sense of anything in front of him. Maybe he’d get there eventually though. There was a book as well, sitting just next to them at a bit of an angle. It was also in Latin, and faint threads of magic looked like all that was keeping it together at this point.

Ron made a curious noise in the back of his throat. Harry looked up to see his friend studying a chess board in the back corner between a pair of green velvet chairs. He looked impressed. Harry had never seen Ron look impressed at a chessboard before.

Hermione squealed, startling him from the silence of the room.

“What is it?” Harry called, turning his head over his shoulder to glance at her. She had pulled a squat, royal blue book off the shelves. He couldn’t see her expression from where he stood, but the way she bounced on her heels seemed promising. Harry wandered over to get a better look.

Hermione presented the book wordlessly with a wide smile. Mind As Arte by Eridanus Black. They’d been looking for this one. It had been mentioned as a reference for parents looking to get their energetic young heirs to their more troublesome emotions. Occulmency, Legilimency, sure he’d known a bit about it, but other than Snape and a lot of yelling he’d had nothing to go on. The fact that anyone could waltz into his mind was still really creepy.

Apparently though, there were more ways to learn the skills than assault and a lot of insults. That was just the quick fix option. Harry wasn’t sure he was thrilled to be looking into all this again, but he didn’t have to deal with his evil bat of a potions professor so that should make everything a lot more bearable. Hopefully.

“Hey, Ron.” Harry beckoned his friend over.

Ron grinned and trotted up. “Find something good?”

“Yeah mate, looks like we’ve got work to do.” Harry’s smile sharped.

Ron barked a challenging laugh at him.

Oh, he was so on.

Hermione shook her head in exasperation and tucked the book under one arm. She stepped through the hole in the door, dancing over scattered debris. Harry bumped Ron with his shoulder on the way out with a little grin and followed. They didn’t even try to cover up the destruction. They were near the back of the third floor now, and at the rate it was taking the Order to clean up it would be at least a couple years before they got this far back. Nobody had gone past the landing to the third floor yet, and that was only Tonks on a dare. So they were safe for a while yet.

Speaking of safe though, they’d have to keep a keen eye out on the way back for any malicious household objects out for their blood. 

\-----

“There’s something wrong with the boy.” Moody growled, chair scraping back from the kitchen table as he sat.

“Of course there’s something wrong with him!” Molly scolded. “He just lost his godfather the poor boy.”

“There’s something else.” The grizzled auror argued. “Something dark.” He had felt it, he knew the signs. They had to get ahead of this before Potter was lost to them forever.

“How dare you -” Molly puffed up like an enraged bear.

“Now Molly,” Lupin soothed, sending Moody a warning glance. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that.”

To hell he didn’t!

“He had better not.” She turned and swished her wand, an overloaded tea tray and sandwich plate arranging themselves gracefully in the air and levitating over to the sturdy wood table.

“What makes you think that?” Kingsley asked casually, relieving the plate of a lightly steaming mini quiche. Good man, finally someone with some sense.

“I can feel it.” Moody responded with a huff, regarding the food with careful scrutiny. He didn’t think this group would or could poison the offerings, but he’d been wrong before. “And that rat he carries around, never seen anything like it.”

“Uh,” Tonks this time, the young auror had to have seen the little abomination too. “What rat?”

The younger generation lived to disappoint.

He turned a gimlet eye to the young witch. “It was with him when we picked him up from the muggle house, scurried up his leg.”

“I don’t remember anything like that.” Tonks frowned. What were they teaching at the auror academy nowadays? Blindness?

“Neither do I.” Arthur added, oh so helpfully. Of course he didn’t.

Moody harrumphed and took a swig of his flask.

“Have you seen it since?” Lupin asked carefully.

“. . . No.” He grumbled. Didn’t mean it was gone though. The wards of the house were quite strong, and he couldn’t see through the walls. If he could, he’d know exactly what Potter was up to.

“Well then.” Molly announced, “That’s the end of that.”

“It is most definitely not.” Mood slammed a closed fist down on the table. “The boy is practically a faucet of death magic!” He refused to let this be the end anything.

Lupin hesitated. “He has been smelling a bit like death lately. But that can happen, when you lose someone.” He let out a sad sigh.

Many members around the table nodded sadly. Black would be missed, of course. But that couldn’t be the call of all of this.

Moody growled something incoherent under his breath. This wasn’t over. He would make them see sense. He had to.


	5. Our Brave Hero Does Not Quite See The Consequences Of Earlier Actions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our hero finds something useful, and several other characters find themselves in situations they'd perhaps rather not be in.

Kreacher had been watching. New master was different. New master may also be a bit of an idiot.

New master was not like old master or old mistress or bad master. New master did not know what he held. Did not know the house would obey his commands. Did not notice how Kreacher straightened the corners of his folded clothes and made bed or swept dust from his room. Did not notice or know many things. But even for that, new master was . . . Creative. Showed much progress. Dirty blood traitor and dirty mudblood who followed him were also . . . Creative. Adaptive. Cunning. True Slytherin traits to be proud of. Proud Black traits.

New master was different in other ways from old masters. New master was darker. It sung around him in ways old mistress would have slaughtered legions for and in a way bad master feared above all. Soft and gentile and fierce. Untapped. Like death itself. It was magic Kreacher could obey. Did obey.

Dirty blood traitor and dirty mudblood’s magics also began to curl darker. The longer they spent in new master’s presence, the more they dove into the old tomes and brushed with curses, the farther they sunk. Not deep yet, no darker than the others in the house who had done battle. But purer darkness. Not human darkness, not the wicked taint of curse and vengeance and dirty nasty human things. The darkness that new master was, that old master was. The darkness of the trees and the night and death itself.

Kreacher did not know how to feel about this. Darkness was not for dirty blood traitors and dirty mudbloods, but these two belonged to his deliciously dark new master. Perhaps, Kreacher though, perhaps they were worth of it.

New master had been kind enough to send him home. Kreacher was thankful for that. New master had yet to ask Kreacher for anything. Most confusing. Kreacher wondered is new master knew he could?

It was not Kreacher’s job to inform new master however. Perhaps new master would learn. Perhaps new master would learn many things.

Until then Kreacher would watch. Watch and wait.

Watch and wait.

\-----

“Hey, Hermione?” Harry called, eyes trailing down the same page for a third time, brow furrowed. It was one of the books from their Knockturn collection. The three were scattered around his and Ron’s room, each paging through some dusty book or another in hopes of finding something. Anything at all, really. Harry thought he finally had, even if it wasn’t exactly what they were looking for.

“What is it?“ Hermione put down her book and slung herself from her horizontal position on Ron’s bed to standing. She sat down on the end of his and raised an eyebrow.

“Check this out.” Harry handed her the book, carefully holding it open to the right page.

Flint sharp brown eyes scanned up and down the pages and a slow, giddy smile crept across her lips. She turned her face up to him, expression sun bright and just as warm. “This is brilliant Harry!” 

Harry grinned back at her proudly. The book was about dark rituals, and while most of them had either made Harry a bit queasy or seemed completely useless (did anyone truly need a set of silverware that clung to your skin like tattoos when not in use?), this one seemed to be the exception. Then again, he was only about halfway through so maybe the more useful rituals were just in the back.

The ritual was a bit creepy, something that would have made him burn the book on its own a year ago, but now he was glad he’d found it. It allowed the caster, or casters, to learn a bunch of languages at once. It could only be performed once, something about minds breaking on the second go and Harry thought that sounded deeply unpleasant. But there wasn’t a limit on the number of languages that could be included or anything, so that wasn’t the biggest deal or anything. There was a slight problem with it though. Or, well, two problems. You had to have the blood of a person that spoke the intended languages. The casters would also cycle through the languages at random until their brains sorted out what was what and what went where, which took about a week on the long end and just a couple days on the short end.

Wizards didn’t part with their blood easily. It was something very dangerous to allow another wizard to gain ahold of. Even Harry knew that. But it never said the blood had to be wizard blood. Muggle blood would be much easier to obtain. Of course, he was going out on a bit of a limb there. Either way it wasn’t like they could perform the ritual right away anyways. They would have to wait for a new moon for one, and if they wanted muggle blood they’d have to wait for school to start so they wouldn’t get caught by the trace since it was only active in the summer months. 

Harry was a bit squicked he was thinking this much about blood theft.

“Knockturn raid tonight then? I’m sure we could find some blood for sale.” Hermione nodded, talking more to herself than anything.

Ron huffed fondly. Harry heard it, given how close Ron was, but wondered if Hermione did. The red haired wizard was leaning against the side of Harry bed, head not even a foot from his legs. He’d set aside his book to listen to the two of them, one finger still inserted to hold hi place.

“Hermione,” Ron chuckled, flipping a bit and lifting himself to kneeling to rest his arms and chin on the mattress between his two friends. “I don’t think we should go rushing into Knockturn just yet.”

“Why not?” She asked, raising a confused eyebrow.

“Do we have to drink any of this blood?” He asked, nose wrinkling up into his forehead at the thought.

She checked the page again. “No, doesn’t seem so.”

“Why do we need blood?” Ron turned to Harry this time.

“Uh, blood ritual.” He cringed a bit at the words. “To learn a whole bunch of languages. We need blood from people who know them.”

“Then how are we going to know if the Knockturn hags are being honest?” Ron turned back to Hermione, nose uncrinkled but only about halfway. “It’s not like they’re famous for that. And there could be anything added in. I heard Kingsley talking once about how he busted a hag who slipped some sort of nasty drug into blood she sold so vampires who bought it would get crazy addicted.”

“Then how are we supposed to get blood?” Hermione demanded a bit bashfully. She looked a bit taken aback at the hag’s behavior as well, teeth pulling a corner of her lip into her mouth in thought.

Ron sighed and his face relaxed into something more thoughtful. “How much blood do we need from each person?” He asked.

“Uh, just a few drops I think.” Harry shrugged.

“And it wouldn’t . . . ” Ron swallowed dryly. “It wouldn’t hurt the person, would it? Who the blood was from?”

“I don’t think so. That’s usually the sort of thing they put in big warnings for.” Harry was more sure about this bit. Seemed like a third of the rituals in the book had bold warnings about some side effect or another, and this one’s warnings hadn’t included anything like that.

Ron was quiet for a few moment, and when he spoke the words were soft and hesitant. “Bill knows a whole lot of languages for his job, and I’d bet Dumbledore and Moody and some of the other members of the Order do too. But we have to make sure it’s safe first, okay?”

Harry nodded seriously. If they were going to steal blood from allies, even if they were being jerks at the moment, then they had to be sure.

“How are we even going to get the blood from them?” Hermione asked after a moment of heavy, thoughtful silence.

“Dunno.” Ron shrugged. “Just an idea.”

“I . . . ” Harry pursed his lips then nodded shallowly. “Might have an idea.”

\-----

It wasn’t the middle of the night. Not even evening, actually. It was around eight in the morning, which wasn’t any time for sneaking around, but it was what Ginny had, so it would have to do.

It wasn’t like you wanted to sneak into an occupied room, after all. That didn’t tend to work too well. But it was breakfast time, and her brother and Harry and Hermione would be down in the kitchen for a while. She’d join them, of course, but only when she was done.

She had already looked through Hermione’s things a bit, feeling like a real creep while she did, but the other girl was neat and tidy and there wasn’t anything at all off that Ginny could find. So it was on to plan B.

Her brother’s room as unlocked, not that any of the rooms in the house seemed to lock. Not without some creepy Black magic or something. There was no one up or about on the second floor. Her family was the only one actually staying there at the moment. And professor Lupin, but he had a first floor room. The second floor near the stairs had the cleanest bedrooms went he order had first arrived in the house, and now it was more tradition than anything that kept them bunking there. Not that Ginny was complaining when it kept what she was about to do well out of sight.

She opened the door and ducked inside, quick as she could, door shutting with a quiet click behind her.

A perfect start.

Ginny found herself incredibly disappointed as she looked around the room. It was cleaner than her brother’s room at home. There were some clothes on the floor, but not much. One of the beds was unmade, Ron’s no doubt. But no loose parchment, no books left lying open, no pictures of dead godfathers or suspicious artifacts. And here she was hoping this would be easy.

She started with her brother’s things first. His dirty clothes she avoided, because yuck, but his trunk wasn’t locked or anything. The inside was a mess. An absolute disaster. Okay, maybe not that bad, but there was a lot of loose parchment and none of the clothes that had been left in there and not put away in the wardrobes was folded. It meant she didn’t have to be particularly careful searching, but it also made it hard to find anything. So she found nothing. Not even any useful gossip on her brother.

Harry’s trunk was much neater. She wouldn’t call it tidy exactly, but it was better. Parchment all together. Books all together. Clothes all away somewhere else. Still, nothing out of the ordinary. Damn.

Ginny sighed. Where else was there to look? If the three had all their plotting hidden away in some other room in the massive house she’d never find it. She turned towards her brother’s bed. Well, she had once place left to look.

She crept around the bed and opened the drawer of her brothers remarkably not dusty bedside table. Parchment, a couple knuts. She almost let it go and moved on. Almost. At the bottom though, there was an slightly crumpled piece of parchment that was tuned upside down, ink bleeding through the back just enough to let her know something was written on it.

She picked it up and turned it over. Ginny froze. Not just stopped moving froze, no. A full joint lock, breath stolen, hair on end freeze. Down to her blood.

It was her brother’s hand writing, she could recognize that anywhere. But what it said . . . Ginny didn’t know what to think. It had to be a joke, didn’t it? No, it couldn’t be. Even her brother wasn’t dumb enough to joke about this. No one was.

Innocent, scrawled lettering at the top read: Lord Mortis To Do List. It was underlined with a quick drawn line and a bit of quill splattering. There were words under it, and Ginny really wished her eyes would move from the top ones so she could she what they were.

Lord Mortis. A to do list about Lord Mortis? A to do list for Lord Mortis? 

Mortis. The Mortis family was dead. Wasn’t it? It was supposed to be. If it wasn’t, that would be first page news wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t somebody have told her? They had to be gone, didn’t they? It was what everyone said, what everyone thought.

Maybe not though.

And if anyone was going to her caught up in all of that, it would be Harry.

Ginny let her eyes trail downwards. Lines of letters, some crossed through, took a moment to focus before her eyes. It seemed like the three of them had been exploring Grimmuald in secret. They had even visited Knockturn Alley. Ginny wondered how they pulled that off, envy spiking in her at a chance to get out of this damned house. There were book titles too, some seemed very dark. Some were crossed through.

Ginny shuddered. Her brother, her friends, diving into the dark art? She wished she could think it was ridiculous, but with this list and this title and this handwriting it all seemed very, very serious. Very real.

Lord Mortis.

That was what this was all about, wasn’t it? Perhaps . . . Perhaps the Lord had contacted Harry? Perhaps he was teaching him? If anything could move a Mortis, a boy who’d survived the killing curse would do it.

That had to be it. That was the only thing that made sense.

But . . . She . . . Did she want to tell anyone? Tell the Order? Lord Mortis was a necromancer, Lord of all necromancers. Undoubtedly dark. Which was bad. But then, nobody else was teaching Harry anything. Nobody was telling them anything at all or helping them or, or, or, or anything! Ginny felt her temper flare. If Harry was going to survive this war, is any of them were, then someone had to teach him. They didn’t have the luxury of being children now and if Lord Mortis was the only one who saw that . . . Well, it wasn’t like any of then could stop a ruthless, powerful necromancer if he wanted to do something anyway. And what he wanted was to teach Harry. Because surely if he’d wanted to kill him or trick him he wouldn’t have bothered with all this. Mortis’ didn’t have to ask for anything, they just took. And Lord Mortis hadn’t taken anything. He was giving. Giving to help them. Which meant that even if he was dark, he couldn’t be all bad.

Ginny put the paper back where she found it and excited the room with careful steps.

She didn’t know what to do now, but she knew she had to help where she could. She’d wait for the right time to talk to the trio about all of this, and until then . . . Maybe she could tell her Mum she’d seen Harry crying the other night, so she’d defend his “mourning time” even more fiercely. 

\-----

“So, Hermione,” Harry said, attempting to wedge himself behind a heavy wood shelf. “What’s up with that bag?”

Hermione was watching from a few feet away as he and Ron worked to balance the shelf just enough to tip the books out but not enough to send it crashing. She was there to let them know how progress was going, and because it was her turn to not be potentially injured by falling book spines. Shelf tipping was a delicate process, and they were becoming very good at it.

She ducked her head a little bashfully. “Ah, well, it’s only wand magic we’re not allowed to practice during the summer. Well, we’re not allowed to practice anything, but runes and arithmancy are subtle enough not to set off any alarms. And well, I got bored waiting around. It’s not like it goes forever. It’s only got maybe a ten foot by ten foot space, but I’m working on better in a smaller bag.”

Harry stared. “Of course, well.” He grunted as the shelf shifted into his ribs a little. “It’s really wicked.”

“You think so?” Her smiled at him brightly. “Expansion charms on bags and fabric aren’t very common, they break easily and its too easy for them to fall apart and - oh Harry, it’s working.”

Harry grunted in response, straining to hold the shelf in balance.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk thunk thunkthunkthunkthunkthunk. The books fell off the shelves.

“Up.” Ron grunted.

Harry agreed, and answered with a grunt as they righted the self and pushed themselves away from the wall. He let out a long, heavy breath.

“Well, lets see what we’ve got!” Hermione chirped, squatting to dig through the pile of books. The ones the didn’t need got piled in a corner and the ones they did wen’t into Hermione’s miracle bag and then the old expanded school trunk.

Harry leant against the wall for a moment before joining her, Ron one beat behind him.

“Hey Harry?” Ron asked after a moment of silent paper shuffling.

“Yeah?” Harry responded, picking a book up out of the pile and squinting at the faded spine. Secrets, Dark and Darker by Roman Rosier. Might be useful.

“You think Parseltounge is a language we can learn with the ritual?” Ron handed him a book for the useful pile. It was thin and dark brown.

Huh. “I dunno.” He didn’t know, but it might be. “Worth a shot I guess.” He was a little worried though, what if the ritual had side effects for the donors he didn’t know of.

“Yeah.” Ron nodded. “Maybe . . .” He shook his head and ducked it in thought. Harry let him think. Sometimes Ron needed a minute. It wasn’t like Harry had anything better to do than wait.

A moment passed, and then another, all with the background shuffle of books.

“Maybe if you’re gonna do it we should too.” Ron said at last.

“Huh?” Harry was confused. Ron only knew a little Latin and Hermione probably knew a couple languages, but nothing they couldn’t pick up from someone else. He didn’t want them at risk if they didn’t have to be.

“If you’re gonna do it, well, I mean, we’ve always done risky things together, and . . . ” Ron trailed off, looking a little frustrated at himself.

“I think it seems like a wonderful idea Ron.” Hermione’s voice was soft and something Harry didn’t quite know how to place.

“But, why?” Harry asked. If they didn’t have to, they shouldn’t have to risk themselves in some dark ritual for him anymore than they already were just going through with it.

“It’s . . .” Hermione floundered for a moment. “It’s a gesture Harry. A commitment. To say that we’re all in this together.”

“Yeah.” Harry smiled wide and dopey. “We are.” He felt really, really warm in a really, really good way.

\-----

Amelia Bones sat in her Cozy home office, in her overstuffed chestnut brown leather chair, staring at her empty desk. Evening sunlight fell through the windows onto her heavy oak desk, painting the room golden even through the half sheer curtains.

She was anything but relaxed.

Mortis. It was a name, a family, she had thought herself free of since birth. Her parents had as well. And her grandparents, as far as she knew. Yes, they were a vassal family. Yes, they were sworn to serve. But no Mortis had been seen in so long, and her family hadn’t been called on in even longer. It was likely things would continue that way, that Lord Mortis was content to leave them be. But she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure about any of this.

But . . . She couldn’t risk anything happening to her niece. Her Susan was a child, an innocent, not yet graduated from Hogwarts and yet to be touched by this war in any way that dimmed the bright light in her eyes. Amelia had been taking care of her since she was just a baby, since her parents, her sister and her husband, had died in the last war. And now she had to find some way to protect her. Some way to keep her out of whatever was going on.

Even if it meant serving the Lord her family had been free of for generations hand and foot and going against everything she believed in.

And all of that meant getting ahead of this, somehow or another.

She took out a piece of parchment and cleanly prepared a quill.

Dearest Lord Rigoure Mortis, she started, then erased the ink with a sharp flick of of her wand. No. That wasn’t right.

Lord Mortis, no, too curt.

The The Greatest Lord Mortis, no, too much Fudge by far.

My Lord Mortis, far too familiar.

Amelia growled lowly. Why couldn’t this be easy? She clenched her hand tight around her wand. It would be truly, wonderfully, blessedly nice to break something right now.


	6. Our Brave Hero Receives An Important Letter

The letter arrived at precisely midnight.

Harry was awoken quite abruptly by the sharp slap of parchment. Right across his face. He bolted up, eyes wild, arms swinging.

There was an owl on his bed.

Harry blinked. What? He fumbled for his glasses. That was an owl alright. Sitting on the end of his bed frame. It was a rather majestic thing, all sleek brown feathers and with a stern look. It hooted at him. Harry blinked again.

He shifted a little, finding a better seat on the bed than his sprawl. Something crinkled in his lap. Huh? Harry pulled his blankets back and stared at the letter sitting in his lap. Ah, that made sense. An owl meant a letter, didn’t it. He picked it up and set it aside for a moment. He fumbled in his bedside table for a moment, pulling out a candle and a matchbox to light it with. If a letter had shown up at this hour it had to be important.

Harry took a closer look in the light. The parchment was nice. Like, really nice. The kind of nice Harry had never seen before, not at school, not in the stationary store, and not in this house. Not, of course, that he knew anything about parchment. But this was smooth and milk and shimmered in the candle light. It looked important, and very pretty. The letter was sealed with dark red wax, and stamped with some sort of crest. Very official.

He carefully peeled the top open. He didn’t want to tear anything this nice so he did it extra slow.

The letter was just as nice, if not nicer, at first glance. Similar to the letter casing except it looked to be lined with gold. Very fancy. Very official.

Why would anyone send this to him?

Harry unfolded the parchment and started to read.

To The Lord of House Mortis, it began.

Harry groaned loudly, but pushed forwards anyway. Each sentence just made him more and more confused. What was a Vassal House? Or, even just a Vassal? Was there a difference? What did the writer mean “expectations of their House”? Susan? He kind of a Susan Bones in his year at Hogwarts. She was Hufflepuff and about his age, and he thought he remembered her in the D.A. last year, but that was about it.

He needed Hermione, and probably Ron too. He really didn’t want to wake them up this late but . . . This sounded important. Really important. Couldn’t wait important. 

Harry winced as he climbed from warm blankets to cold night air, and again when his feet hit the floor. He didn’t know wood could get that icy.

“Ron.” Harry stage whispered, shaking his friend lightly.

Ron snored louder.

Harry shook him again. “Ron!”

“Whuzzat?” The redhead groaned, burrowing further into his bed.

“Ron, come on.” Harry shook a bit harder.

Ron didn’t even move this time. 

So, as any reasonable individual would, Harry pushed his friend out of his bed. Ron landed with a muffled thump, and began swearing sleepily. A tousled head peeked above the edge of the mattress.

“What the fuck Harry?” Ron blinked up at him sleepily.

“Something important happened.” Harry whispered. He tried to sound as serious as he could, but he wasn’t sure how well he managed.

“Couldn’t it have waited until morning?” The other boy’s head thumped against the side of the bed.

“I’m not sure.” He responded, squirming a little and suppressing a yawn of his own.

Ron mumbled something unintelligible. Harry snorted out a laugh. Trust Ron to be impossible to wake up even in an . . . He wasn’t sure this was an emergency, but he also wasn’t sure it wasn’t.

“I’ll get Hermione.” Harry shuffled over to the door. “Just, you wake up a bit.”

A low groan followed him out the door.

The young wizard crept through the hallways of Grimmuald as quietly as he could. He didn’t have far to go, the girls were just around the corner. Really, you’d think with all the exploring he had done he’d feel a bit better about the house. But he still found it really, really creepy. Especially at night. Harry took a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh. Just, keep focused, Hermione’s room wasn’t too far. Ignore the creepy shadows and far away creaks and . . . Were those whispers? No, just keep walking. Oh thank Merlin, there was her door.

Harry slipped in as quietly as he could. After years of sneaking around Hogwarts and the Dursleys’ Harry like to think that was pretty quiet. Two forms slept soundly, and he paused and winced. He forgot Hermione shared a room with Ginny. He really hoped she was as deep a sleeper as her brother or this could get awkward.

Still, nothing to do about that now. Luckily, it wasn’t hard to tell who was who. Hermione’s bushy hair created a distinct silhouette and Crookshanks was curled up against her side. She was also, thankfully, the closest to the door.

“Hermione.” Harry whispered, shaking her lightly and crouching down next to the bed. “Hermione.”

It took a few moments before she stirred, nose wrinkling and eyes scrunching up. She didn’t make any noise though, and when she opened her eyes to look at him Harry pressed one finger to his lips. It took a few sleepy blinks for her to process what was going on. Harry could tell when she did, her expression changing from confused to annoyed.

He motioned her to follow him and took a couple steps towards the door. The witch propped herself up with one arm and rolled her eyes at him hard enough for him to see even in the darkness. She shooed him off with one hand and a soft snort. Harry nodded back at her and slipped back into the hallway, closing the door as quietly as he could behind him. She’d probably meet up with them back in Ron’s room. At least, he hoped she would and that hand’t been her just telling him to let her go back to sleep.

The way back to his room was just as creepy as the way there, but it seemed to go faster.

Ron was already up. Or at least sort of sitting with his blanket pulled around him like a cloak. He gave Harry a nasty stink eye as he headed over to his own bed, but the room was much better lit than before with a handful of candles spaced about and the trunk they kept the books in had been pulled out of it’s hiding place to sit near enough to Harry’s bed. He tossed Ron a greatful smile as he wiggled his feet back beneath his own blankets.

Ron grunted at him. “Hermione coming?”

“Yeah, she’ll be here in a few.” Harry nodded. Now that he was settled again his eyes were drawn back to the letter resting on his bedside table. He hoped he was doing the right thing, waking them up like this.

His friend huffed and threw himself back against the pillows that had been propped up against the headboard. Harry spared him a glance and then decided the most productive use of his time was probably fiddling with the edges of his blankets.

It was a quiet few minutes until Hermione walked in, looking just as tired as he felt but with something in her expression reminding him of the one she’d had just before she’d punched Malfoy. Harry winced. Fiery dark brown eyes locked onto his and she raised one eyebrow at him, sitting on the end of Ron’s bed with her legs crossed. Maybe waking them up had been about the worst decision he could have made. But then, well, he really didn’t know one way or another if the letter could wait, did he?

So, he did what made the most sense to him, and tossed the letter to Hermione. She caught it easily and started reading, brow furrowing as she went further and further down the page. When she was done she pursed her lips and handed the letter to Ron without a word.

After a moment of reading, Ron set the letter down in front of him.

“I understand, like, half of this.” He announced.

Two nods answered him.

“I was confused by quite a bit too.” Hermione confessed, looking frustrated and defeated. They had all been confused a lot lately, fumbling around in the dark like they were. None of them liked it very much.

“I barely understood anything.” Harry added casually. “So, I wasn’t really sure whether it could wait or not. I mean, it looks important, and it sounds important, but I don’t know what it actually means.”

Ron snorted. “I know a little about the whole Vassal thing, but not really all that much. It’s a pureblood thing where one House sort of serves another one, I think.” He didn’t sound that sure, which was anything but comforting.

Hermione scooted off the bed and began digging through their trunk of books. She hummed to acknowledge of Ron’s words.

“So, I have a servant now?” Harry asked, a bit baffled.

“I guess?” Ron shrugged at him, blanket mound moving as a whole in an almost rolling motion. “But it’s more like two servants, I think, with what she said about Susan.”

“Yeah, uh, about that?” Harry turned embarrassed eyes back to his blankets. “Do you two know anything about her? All I know is that she’s in Hufflepuff, really.” He looked back and forth between his friends the settled on Hermione.

After a beat of silence, the girl looked up to find two pairs of eyes fixed on her.

“What?” She snapped. “Just because I’m a girl doesn’t have to mean I know any more about her than you do.”

Harry shrugged. “But do you?”

She huffed a little. “A bit more than you at least. Her and Hannah Abbot seem close, and they were both in the D.A. last year.”

Harry nodded. He had thought he’d remembered her there but hadn’t been sure. “What about her Aunt?”

“Actually,” Ron was the one who answered him, “I think Amelia Bones is the head of the D.M.L.E.”

Harry’s eyes widened, but he was cut off from saying anything by a now crow of triumph from Hermione. When he turned to look at her she was already paging through a thick book. She landed about two thirds through and read nearly a dozen pages in silence as the boys waited for her to be done.

Her head snapped up, face spread in a triumphant grin. “Vassals and Vassal Houses are actually different. A Vassal swears themself to a House or a person for as long as they live, trading servitude for protection. The magic involved in the bond protects the Vassal from certain forms on mental attack, lets the one the Vassal is sworn to know when the Vassal is in danger, and some other things we probably don’t need to get into. It’s a long list. Vassal Houses, on the other hand, are whole Houses sworn very strictly to serve another House. They obey them and serve them to the best of their ability in return for very little. Usually most of the benefit is that the Lord’s House, the one they’re sworn to, doesn’t allow anyone to attack the Vassal House outright or they’ll seem weak for letting that happen. It all sounds vey archaic.”

“I wonder how many languages she knows?” The words spilled out of Ron’s mouth slowly, easy and dull in contrast to the sharp gleam in his eyes.

Harry snorted. Leave it to Ron to work this to their advantage. Still, his stomach twisted at the thought of having someone who had to obey him. It all sounded very Death Eatery. But if he could get another bit of blood . . . He’d learn to live with it.

“How am I going to write back? And on what?” Harry asked, eyeing the letter like it would bite him if he twitched wrong. How was he supposed to get parchment that nice?

“Maybe there’s something in that study we found?” Ron sounded similarly unsure.

“Maybe we should look into proper pureblood letter writing etiquette first? It would be bad to get this wrong.” Hermione suggested.

Both boys groaned lowly. She was right, but it was going to be a very long night.

\-----

Eighteen hours and one painstakingly crafted letter later all three teenagers let out a collective breath. They’d found some hopefully nice enough parchment in the creepily pristine study, along with a few more pieces of jewelry that Hermione added to her now heavily expanded jewelry box and some nice quills Ron snagged.

Wax for sealing the letter had been harder to acquire, but eventually they had managed to find some very nice dark green candles that would have to do, even if they did smell like pine. As for the seal, well, when Harry had just started to panic about that himself he found himself in possession of one all of a sudden. It had just appeared in his hand. The symbol on it was what looked to be a dragon skull and a sickle, which definitely wasn’t creepy at all. There had been a lot of staring, but none of them had actually wanted to deal with what that might mean, so after a moment the three all independently decided that was perfectly normal and not their problem.

Of course, there was another problem now.

“So, Harry, what owl are you going to use?” Ron asked, words somewhat muffled since he was currently pressing his face to the cool wood desk and couldn't be bothered to lift his head to speak. He was half slumped out of the green velvet chair the had pulled up to the side of the desk, and looked well and truly exhausted. They were still in the study, all crowded around the large desk, and had been for hours.

“What do you mean? I’ll just use Hedwig.” Harry answered, flexing his hand to work out the stiffness from writing so carefully for so long. Yes, his handwriting still resembled chicken scratch, but at least it was legible now, and most of the letters looked like actual letters. He counted it as a win.

“No, you wont.” Ron lifted his head up just enough to send Harry a pointed look before dropping it again with a thunk. “Not unless you want everyone to figure out you’re Lord Mortis. You’re the only one with a snowy at Hogwarts and there can’t be that many more out there. They’re a rare bird here mate. I love Hedwig, you know that, but don’t be dull.”

Harry groaned. He didn’t have any other owl just laying around. “What am I supposed to do then?”

Hermione stood from her seat. “I might have an idea, wait here.” She rushed from the room without any other explanation.

Harry massaged his hand a bit more. Ron rolled his head against the sleek wood. They waited.

Hermione came through the door again with a pillow case that she was holding at arms length and swung rather ominously.

“What is that?” Harry hoped he sounded as not happy about whatever was in that bag as he felt.

“Crookshanks’ latest gift. I have no idea how he caught it, but it should do.” Hermione sighed. She dropped the bag on the floor and collapsed back into her seat. It landed with a fleshy thunk. There was an owl in that bag. Or, at least a large bird. Either way, it was dead and he didn’t want anything to do with it.

“I don’t even know how to bring things back to life.” He protested weakly. Still, he slid out of the chair and found a comfortable seat in front of the lumpy pillowcase.

“Just, I don’t know, focus.” Hermione sounded a bit strained. Probably the exhaustion. Harry knew he was feeling it too, only probably less than his friends. He was used to bad sleep, at least a little. “How were you feeling the last two times?”

“Frustrated, I guess? My magic was being a bit funny too.” Harry answered. He wasn’t feeling very confident about this.

“Then be frustrated at it. You have to start figuring all this out sometime.” Hermione responded, waving a hand somewhat lazily through the air.

Harry stared at the pillowcase. “Uh, wake up? Please?” He asked politely, ignoring Rn’s snort from behind him. Nothing. Well, alright then.

He closed his eyes. Okay Harry, get frustrated, he told himself. Ginny with Dean,Voldemort, Sirius, Dumbledore keeping the prophecy from him, Snape, the Dursleys, wow there was a lot for him to get upset about, no - focus, Umbridge, the Ministry, people being mean to Luna, the oncoming dread of N.E.W.T revision, there we go. Apparently thinking about frustrating things worked. His magic was writhing beneath his skin like a pit of snakes, which was admittedly a bit disturbing, but he also felt like breaking his knuckles on someones face and tearing someone to pieces and no, focus Harry.

There was something dead in front of him. He wanted it to not be dead. Focus on that. Concentrate. Concentrate.

Like a striking snake, far more pinpoint than it had been before, his magic sprang forwards. There was a rustle of feathers and Harry’s eyes snapped open.

A black beak poked out of greying fabric, followed by a black head feathered head. It took a minute, but eventually a whole bird had nosed its way out of the pillowcase. It was an unusually large crow. One with killing curse green eyes.

Harry stared in awe. He had done that. He had done that on purpose. He had tried to bring something back to life and he had done it. It felt incredible.

Harry swung around to look at Ron and Hermione, joyous smile stretching his cheeks until they hurt. They were both staring, wide eyed and still.

“Wow.” Ron breathed. “I mean, it’s not that I didn’t believe you, but mate, that’s . . . Merlin’s Beard!”

Harry just grinned wider. He stood slowly, the high of doing something so absolutely amazing all but erasing his previous tiredness. One step and the bird flapped its wing to land neatly on his shoulder. It looked at him and clacked its beak twice.

There was a small squeak in his pants pocket, and Uric crawled out to inspect the other undead creature. The crow hopped off anf onto the desk to get a better look at Uric itself. He hadn’t known the mouse was in there, but he wasn’t really surprised. Somehow the little thing was always around. The doxie, who he had named Filemina after one of Wood’s Quidditch heroes, was the same way. It didn’t take but a moment for her to reveal herself to buzz around the two on dainty wings. Or, at least he’d been assuming the doxie was a she. It was very pretty and very dangerous, and that fit the bill of most of the girls he knew, so he figured it was probably a fair bet.

Three pairs of killing curse eyes inspected one another. Creepy. But now Harry thought it was a bit cool too.

He wasn’t sure he really wanted to interrupt the little meet and greet, but he did need to get this letter off sooner rather than later. So Harry reached across the desk to grab the nice, sealed letter, and held it out to the bird.

“Can you, uh, take this to Amelia Bones?” He asked, unsure of what the proper procedure for handing off a letter to a non owl bird was. Would it even know what to do?

Apparently, what he’d said was good enough, as the crow snatched the letter up in its beak and flapped over to the nearest window sill.

Harry opened the window and watched his newest companion flap off into the dimming evening.

He turned to his friends with a sigh. Dinner was soon, which was exactly what he needed, and after that a nice long rest sounded about divine.

Hermione looked back to him from the window, having been watching the crow fade into the distance with him. “Well, at least I’ve figured out how to learn how many languages everyone in the Order knows.” She rubbed a tired hand against her temples.

“Great.” Harry sighed. He was happy about that, of course. It just seemed like there was never any time for a break.

\----

When an abnormally large crow with glowing, killing curse green eyes set a letter down in from of her with more poise than a good number of her coworkers, Amelia Bones knew exactly who the letter was from. Her heart beat heavy and fast in her chest.

Lord Mortis had responded.

She quietly excused herself from breakfast, brushing off her niece’s concerned and curious looks. She was in her study as quick as she could get to it, and was throwing up quick wards before the door even clicked shut. Wards to keep her niece from eavesdropping. Wards to keep anyone from bursting in. Wards to keeping anything malicious the letter might contain in, trapped in the study where her niece couldn’t be harmed.

She set the letter on the desk in front of her and folded shaking fingers together. He had responded. He had responded quickly. Usually, in pureblood circles, just a speedy response meant a great deal of respect or a great deal of urgency. But even then . . . For it to be delivered by Lord Mortis’ own owl, or crow in this case, instead of by WizMail, well, that could mean any number of things. Perhaps the Lord simply wished to keep all correspondence secret. Perhaps there was something in this letter he couldn’t risk being seen, or picked up by curse scanners. Perhaps many things.

She couldn’t delay opening it though. She knew that. One deep breath and Amelia slipped her finger under the flap of the letter, breaking the pine scented seal of the House of Mortis. She pulled the letter out, holding it like it was made of thin glass and spiderwebs. She unfolded it.

Head of Vassal House Bones, it began. That was promising, respectful if not overly formal.

Her eyes scanned down the page, reading with fearful fervor. When she finished, Amelia let out a soft breath in relief. They were not being called to serve, neither her nor Susan, at least not yet. Nor did it appear that the Lord was displeased with how she had penned her letter. There were, however, a number of questions included at the end of the letter, and she didn’t know what to make of those. Was the Lord determining her usefulness? Did he already know the answers and was just testing her honesty? Was something else entirely afoot?

Amelia chewed on her lip in thought. Why would Lord Mortis wish to know how many languages she spoke? How well she dueled? What her Patronus was?

No matter the reason, she had a letter to write. She could take her time, yes, the average response time for a letter was two to five days depending on levels of respect, urgency, and general politeness. But it would do her well to get started now. At least Lord Mortis seemed disinterested in Susan. She could say with confidence that was the best news she’d gotten all year.

\-----

Harry turned over again. He must have done it a dozen times that night already. But no matter how he lay or how long he lay there, he just couldn’t get to sleep.

Harry opened his eyes in defeat and started at the ceiling. It wasn’t like it was anything new, his inability to sleep. Some nights no matter how hard he tried it just wouldn’t come. He’d had several night s like this one at the beginning of the summer, consumed with sadness over Sirius and directionless anger and restless energy, not feeling like he could ever do enough. Sometimes, he went out for a walk. Sometimes it helped. Sometimes it just gave him something to do.

Harry sighed. He couldn’t very well go for a walk now though. This wasn’t the Dursleys and this wasn’t Privet Drive. He could really use one though. Just to clear his head. So much had happened lately and he had no idea what to do about it.

This wasn’t how he’d imagined his life going. All these dark books and necromancy and weird pureblood etiquette. He just wanted to get through school, get through the war, find a quiet job and a quiet wife and live in peace. He didn’t see that happening now, any of it. Not with all of this. Who would want to date a necromancer?

He sighed, his mind slipping deep into things he didn’t really want to think about.

How long would Ron and Hermione stay if he kept doing things like he’d done the other day. Bringing things back to life. Messing with death and dark magic. They had seemed okay with everything so far, but dark magic was evil and surely they wouldn’t want to be around anyone evil. What is he was evil? What if he turned evil? As evil as Voldemort even? He didn’t want that.

Harry bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. He couldn’t think about this. It was too much. He need to get up. He needed a walk.

Harry climbed out of bed without thinking about it and stepped out the door to his room. To his left was the stairs, it his right the great expanse of Grimmuald Place. Harry went left, and just kept walking.

\-----

Rita Skeeter liked to think she was an exceptionally canny woman. It was only because she was an exceptionally canny woman that she knew all she knew, discovered all she discovered.

The Ministry had been hiding something for weeks. All the officials had been sneaking around. Her normal sources were coming up empty. So Rita had done a little snooping of her own. And she had found something very interesting. Something dangerous. Something the people needed to know.

But not, perhaps, something she needed to tell them herself.

Which was why she had aliases. Three of them. None could be connected back to her and it would be no tragedy if one of them had to . . . Disappear. Especially in pursuit of such interesting news! Lord Mortis had taken a visit to the ministry. A prestigious Lord of a dark House long since thought dead and gone. 

Rita Skeeter picked up her quill and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

This required a careful hand. She needed to think very carefully about exactly what spin she wanted to put on this. This was why she was a reporter. This power. This narrative was hers. This story was hers. What the public thought of this event, what they believed, where their minds strayed when they discussed this with one another . . . It was all hers.

She let a slow smile cross brilliant red lips.

Rita Skeeter knew exactly what she was going to say. She put the quill to parchment, and began the most important part: finding the headline.


End file.
